One and the Same
by nurse13
Summary: Episode tag to S2E2 *&* D'Artagnan-centric *&* Slightly off-canon *&* I couldn't stand, how the king treated his loyal musketeers after they brought him back to the palace in time. So I thought of a way to make him see his errors. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan has to pay the price for it. This is what my muse came up with. Featuring all main characters.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Hey out there, I've got another little story ready. This time it's more d'Artagnan-centric, but I couldn't help, I had to get it out of my mind. After re-watching S2E2 for the umpteenth time, I again felt really angry with the king for the way he treated his musketeers. So I thought about a way to make him see the error of his ways. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan is the one to suffer for Louis' enlightening... This could be seen as an episode tag to 'An Ordinary Man', although it's a bit off-canon._

 _As always, reviews are deeply appreciated!_

 _On last note: Thanks to my beta_ **Linguam** _for making this readable!_

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 ***One***

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"You gave him your word!"

D'Artagnan was appalled and disappointed. The king had promised Bruno Lemaitre clemency for his part in their kidnapping and now he had commanded **him** to kill the man, who had helped them out. Obviously, Louis was thinking that killing someone in cold blood would be a reward for his young musketeer. It couldn't have been farther from the truth…

"Are you taking sides with the traitor, against your king?" Louis asked annoyed, his voice conveying a subtle threat, warning the Gascon to not answer the question in the way he'd originally intended.

Hearing his brothers shifting subtly behind him, d'Artagnan huffed out an exasperated breath before he took a step back. Then he looked over to Treville, whose eyes met his. His gaze was indicating sympathy and silent support; the Captain would accept his decision no matter what. So the young man decided to simply follow his heart this one time.

"I'm a soldier," he began when he turned to look back at his majesty again. Facing him, he ended his sentence, "…not an executioner."

Without waiting for an answer he bowed, briefly, and moved back into line with his brothers, suddenly feeling weary and a bit dizzy. Now that the tension and the agitation were leaving him, the throbbing pain in his back made itself known again. Thus far he had been able to ignore it completely, had simply denied its existence, but now...

The king seemed confused and upset that his musketeer had denied the offer, had rejected his reward. But before he could say anything about it, Rochefort drew his sword and swiftly stabbed the begging man to death.

The Gascon watched the execution turned sideways, feeling relief when Aramis' understanding gaze met his. Hearing the king praise Rochefort made him feel sick and he winced when he turned to face his monarch again. Carefully straightening to full height, d'Artagnan couldn't suppress the hissing sound that escaped through his teeth when his clothing moved against his torn skin.

Aramis shot him a questioning look but he ignored it, too busy to fight the darkness creeping into his vision, just as he had had to in the church, when they all bowed for the dauphin. Once more he felt something warm trickling down his backside, and he assumed that he was bleeding again. Before, he'd been quite capable of ignoring the pain in his back, the ache of his shirt sticking to his skin, the pressure of his doublet and the cloak. He had been full of adrenalin from the fight against the kidnappers and their escape and even the would-be-duel against the other Lemaitre had brought him renewed energy. He couldn't disappoint his brothers and he still had to bring the king back to safety. Although his friends had him somewhat released of that burden, but still… He had protected his sovereign thus far and he would do so as long as he wasn't properly released from his duty.

Suddenly, he felt ready to collapse, right here and now, but he would be damned if he showed any sign of weakness. Not in front of the king, who was making them scapegoats for his silly idea. And surely not in front of this maniac Rochefort, who was sneaking his way into the king's inner circle.

Taking a slow, deep breath, d'Artagnan concentrated again on what was happening around him and heard the king's final words.

"Why do you musketeers insist on disappointing me?"

The injustice of this question made his anger flare again and gave him another rush of much needed energy. Watching the king leave and Rochefort's guards pulling the corpse out of the room, he turned on his heels and headed for the door, directly followed by Treville and his brothers.

"D'Artagnan, wait!" Aramis called for him.

With a sigh, the Gascon stopped right behind the threshold. Obviously, the medic hadn't forgotten his signs of discomfort. And thinking about it, he too, felt it again. Not just discomfort, but the pain throbbing through his back. It hit him like a rock… Taking a stumbling step sideways, he searched for support at the wall, suddenly panting for breath.

"D'Artagnan?" That was the Captain right beside him, concern in his voice. "Are you alright, lad?"

A hand touched his aching back and elicited pure agony. Uttering a half-loud cry, the young musketeer dropped to his knees and hands, his chest heaving heavily, and desperately tried to stay conscious. His vision was darkening and there was a confusing hum in his ears. He could hardly hear himself gasp for breath.

"D'Artagnan!"

He heard Aramis calling him and suddenly the medic was kneeling in front of him, his hands on d'Artagnan's shoulders the only thing preventing the younger from tilting sideways. "What's wrong with you, pup?" the Spaniard asked, his voice gently, but insistent.

But he couldn't answer.

"D'Artagnan!" Athos' voice joined the chorus of worried exclamations.

"What's the matter with him?" Porthos queried.

"I don't know," Aramis said.

"Don't touch his..." was the last d'Artagnan heard Treville say, when once more a hand touched his back.

Crying out in pain, his arms buckled and he fell onto his left side, before the world went black around him.

*14AAA41*

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"Damn!" Aramis swore, immediately checking d'Artagnan for any signs of life. He quickly discovered that the boy was still breathing and his heart was beating, but he felt quite warm to the touch. The whelp definitely had a fever and was most likely injured, because he wouldn't just collapse because of exhaustion.

Hearing Athos shift beside him, he could almost feel the concern radiating from their leader.

"Aramis..." his friend demanded.

"I don't know yet," he answered brusquely. Remembering the Captain's last words, he hurried to unbutton the Gascon's doublet, before he slid his hands under it.

"Madre diós," he uttered, when he pulled them away from the boy's back. There was redness on his fingers, not too much but enough to make him worry. Silently cursing his youngest brother's complete disregard of his own well-being, the medic took a deep breath.

"I need a place to tend to him," he demanded, looking up to his Captain. "We can't wait till we've brought him back to the garrison."

"Take him to the guest quarters," Rochefort's gruff voice told him.

Startled, Aramis and his brothers turned their heads and saw the Captain of the Red Guards standing in the doorway. Apparently, the 'comte' had decided to follow them rather than to accompany the king, for whatever reason.

The blonde man smirked sarcastically. "It would leave a bad impression, one of the king's musketeers bleeding all over the floor in the Louvre."

The musketeers tensed, hearing the disdainful undertone in Rochefort's voice. But before they could respond, he continued. "Although the king is disappointed with you, he wouldn't appreciate if this one just died. And without a decent reason, it would seem..."

Porthos growled deeply and started to rise, but Athos' hand on his arm held him back.

"No," the swordsman said. "We have more urgent problems. It looks like you must carry him." He rose and faced his Captain. Assuming that Treville held at least some sort of authority because of his frequent presence at the palace, Athos chose to address him rather than Rochefort. "Could you arrange that we get some supplies? All that might be needed?"

"Of course," the Captain answered before he quickly walked away, heading for the servant's quarters, knowing that there he would find someone to help him.

"And I'll tell Dr. Lemay that he might be needed," Rochefort offered. "And now move him, before someone else notices this mess." Snorting and shaking his head, he turned on his heels, his exit followed by another dark growl from Porthos.

Aramis muttered something incomprehensible in Spanish before concentrating on d'Artagnan again. "You must be gentle, Porthos. I don't know the exact kind of injury yet, but there's obviously a bleeding wound on the pup's back. If you just scoop him up, it will most likely hurt him."

Porthos nodded and had just started to take his youngest brother into his arms when d'Artagnan suddenly stirred. His arm moved closer to his body; he started to blink and then his eyes opened as he wearily tried to push himself up, only to hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut again. After a moment, the young man groaned and gasped for breath, but he finally managed to sit up and open his eyes.

The medic saw the haze of pain in his friend's eyes and shook his head. _Damn, stubborn pup_... "D'Artagnan? Can you hear me?"

Blinking slowly, the Gascon obviously tried to focus on him, but he failed. Instead his lids closed again and he grimaced once more.

"D'Artagnan, we need to move. We can't stay here," Athos said apologetically, gripping one of the lad's arms. "Can you stand?"

"Mmh-hm..."

The medic huffed and indicated Porthos to take d'Artagnan's other arm. Watching his brothers hauling their youngest up, he heard the Gascon hiss through gritted teeth. The boy swayed dangerously on his feet, but he stood upright, face pale and breathing heavily. Aramis took the arm Athos held and put it over his shoulder to support the boy, Porthos following his example. A small cry escaped d'Artagnan's lips, but he quickly closed his mouth again, biting his bottom lip.

"Sorry," the Spaniard mumbled.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan uttered, breathless.

Aramis couldn't help but to smile when he heard that surely false statement. Hearing Athos snort, he carefully laid his free arm around the Gascon's waist, wincing when the boy once more sucked in a pained breath.

"Sorry," he apologised again. "Maybe Porthos better carry you, after all," he suggested.

"No!" d'Artagnan protested firmly, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I can walk."

Exchanging doubtful looks, the three older men almost simultaneously shrugged. Then Athos sighed and nodded towards the next corridor. "Follow me, I'll lead the way."

*14AAA41*

.

It took them almost endless minutes of awkward stumbling to bring d'Artagnan into one of the guest quarters. The farther they went, the more d'Artagnan was leaning into them, till Porthos and Aramis almost carried him. Together they managed to sit their pup down onto the bed, where Porthos supported him while Aramis took the Gascon's cloak and leather doublet off.

D'Artagnan stiffened and held his breath when the weight of the leather was finally taken from his body. But it was Athos' reaction that told Aramis all he needed to know.

The swordsman had been walking around the room, taking the buckets with water and linens from the servants to prevent them from coming in. He had put the supplies onto the table and was crossing the room again to wait for Treville, walking right behind his protégé when Aramis removed the doublet.

Suddenly the former 'comte' froze in his movement and his eyes widened, followed by the sound of a sharp inhale, a brief pause, before Athos voiced his concern. "My god... D'Artagnan!"

The swordsman looked up, anger and disgust clear to be seen in his eyes. "He's been whipped," he stated, deadly calm.

Silently gesturing Porthos to turn their youngest around a bit, Aramis couldn't help but to inhale audibly. "Dios **(mío)**!"

The Gascon's back was a mess, his shirt stained with blood and sticking to the wounds underneath. It was clear to see that the young man had indeed been whipped, hard enough to leave bleeding welts. And he was bleeding again.

"I can't take your shirt off without soaking it in water, d'Artagnan," Aramis explained while he moved to face his youngest brother. "But even so, it will still hurt a lot.

The young man just gave a weak nod. "I know," he murmured. "Just… do it."

Lifting his head, Aramis met Athos' gaze. Their leader looked ready to commit murder, and suddenly the medic wished they hadn't finished off all of those damn kidnappers back there in the forest. Their deaths had been far too merciful...

Porthos, who was still holding the pup to prevent him from tumbling down on the floor, only growled- lowly, darkly. A sound that would have made Aramis shiver, if he hadn't known his friend for so long.

Then Athos seemed to forcefully calm himself. He stalked over to the table, taking some towels and dipping them into one of the water buckets before he made his way back to the bed.

"Place them onto his back," the medic instructed the swordsman. "This will be unpleasant," he warned d'Artagnan directly after, directing the young man's hands onto his own arms.

"Do it," the Gascon uttered, briefly looking up.

A quick glance was enough to make Porthos tighten his grip on the boy's shoulders. Athos, still hesitating, exchanged another look with Aramis. After getting his silent approval, the former 'comte' gently placed the dripping wet towels on his little brother's back.

*14AAA41*

.

It wasn't as bad as he had expected, at first. But when the water slowly soaked through his shirt and into the still open wounds, it started to hurt.

Badly.

And it got worse.

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth, so hard that he heard them crunch. His grip on the medic's arms became vicelike, provoking a pained hiss from his friend. But he couldn't help it, couldn't loosen his grip, for the throbbing and stinging morphed into a hellfire of pain. He wasn't able to stifle his groan and when he finally noticed Aramis gesturing Athos to remove the towels, he was panting. Slowly he let go of his brother's arms, barely registering the imprints his fingers had left on the medic's flesh.

"We'll pull your arms out of your sleeves," Aramis announced softly.

Dismissing the idea of speaking the Gascon simply nodded once. Directly afterwards, he felt first Aramis, then Porthos carefully guiding his arms out of his shirt. Losing his balance, d'Artagnan wavered dangerously on the edge of the bed and then Athos was suddenly in front of him, keeping him steady.

"Sh-sh... I've got you," his mentor mumbled. "It's almost over."

The words were meant to comfort him, but they didn't. D'Artagnan knew all too well that this had only been the beginning, the easy part. As soon as Aramis pulled the fabric away from the welts on his back, the pain would flare and most likely drive him unconscious again.

Not that he would mind any more...

"Maybe we should wait for Dr. Lemay? He might have something against the pain," Aramis suggested suddenly.

Slowly shaking his head, d'Artagnan pulled himself together. "No..." he murmured. "Don't let me wait any longer. Just finish it... Please," he added after a short break.

He could almost feel the worried looks of all of his three older brothers, and he appreciated it, but he wouldn't be able to stand the burning pain much longer.

"Well then..." Aramis' voice sounded hoarse and he harrumphed. "Ready?"

Clinging onto Athos' arms this time, the Gascon once more gritted his teeth and then nodded.

And when the medic finally tugged the fabric away, it felt like Aramis was tearing his back apart, like his friend was going to pull his skin away. He couldn't help but scream in agony when the pain flared, before finally sinking into oblivion.

*14AAA41*

When d'Artagnan went limp in his arms, Porthos pulled him closer, successfully preventing him from sliding down onto the floor. Athos, whose arms were free again, hurried to assist him and together with Aramis the three of them managed to place the boy on his stomach on the bed.

Rising slowly, Porthos got his first look at his little brother's back. "If those scum weren't dead already, I'd kill them slowly," he growled.

Meanwhile, Athos took his place at the edge of the bed, near the Gascon's head, pushing some strands of hair from the younger man's face. His hand stayed unwittingly in d'Artagnan's hair when he looked up. "So, how bad is it?" he asked.

Aramis had made use of the time and taken a closer look at the whip-marks.

Whoever had flogged the boy had done it with all his might. The strokes of the whip had been meant to hurt as much as possible. The skin had been cut deep; in some parts, the medic thought he could see the white of the shoulder blades shimmering through. And apparently nobody had taken care of the wounds. Just as if someone had taken his anger out on the pup and then pushed him aside. Most likely they had forced him to undress before the punishment, which would explain the state of his shirt. It wasn't shredded, only stained with blood.

"That must have hurt like hell," Aramis mumbled, carefully touching the edges of the wounds. "I cannot understand how he could stand it this long. His clothes must have shifted against those welts with every movement."

"The pup is too stubborn for his own good," Porthos said with a sigh.

"But why didn't he tell us that he was injured?" Athos asked.

"Are you really asking that?" the medic questioned him with a raised eyebrow. "You?"

Shooting him an annoyed glance, Athos turned his head in the direction of the door when he heard footsteps approaching.

After a brief knock, the door opened and Treville entered the room, directly followed by Dr. Lemay.

"I met the doctor on my way," the Captain told them, "…and..." Stopping dead in his tracks, Treville couldn't finish his sentence. "What the hell..."

Meanwhile, Dr. Lemay had reached his patient and was looking closely at the boy's back. "Do you know when this happened?" he asked Aramis, who had left his place at d'Artagnan's side to make way.

"Not exactly, but since he and the king disappeared two days ago and we returned to Paris just before the dauphin's christening, it could have been anytime between then and this morning," the Spaniard answered.

"From the look of these wounds, I assume it happened this morning. They're too fresh to be older than twelve hours. But what's worse is that nobody's cleaned them. They show early signs of infection."

"What would explain the fever," Aramis said sombrely.

"Hmm..." Checking the Gascon's forehead, Lemay nodded. "Definitely feverish. Well..." He straightened and opened his bag, taking out the things he needed. When he had prepared his supplies, he let his gaze wander over the four men in the room.

"I have to thoroughly clean these wounds, which will cause the patient a lot of pain. But because he's unconscious already and lying on his stomach, I can't give him anything against it."

"We'll hold him," Athos simply said, understanding what the physician tried to say and gesturing to Porthos to take hold of the boy's legs. "And Aramis will assist you."


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Thanks to Sarah, Debbie and Goblin Queen for your reviews, I'm glad you like my new 'baby'. Also my huge thanks to all of you who favor or follow this story, your support means a lot. I really appreciate the reception this story got from the very start. THANKS!_

 _One little thing: This will be a rather short one, seven chaps at all, and I'll be updating every Sunday, if even possible. Enjoy!_

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.

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 ***Two***

 **.**

Athos was spent.

Watching his little brother squirm and buckle in pain, hearing his groans and pained whimpers, had almost killed him. To see and hear d'Artagnan suffer and be unable to do anything about it, but instead be one of those who were holding him down, forcing him to endure the pain, was the last thing he ever wanted to do. Of course, the Gascon had been injured before, but he had always been coherent enough to keep still on his own when Aramis had been tending to him. But this today had been a new experience; his concern had been taken to a new dimension.

The swordsman had struggled against the nausea rising in his throat while he watched Dr. Lemay thoroughly cleaning the whip-marks. Most of them had started to bleed again, sluggishly but nevertheless… He had been shocked to discover how deep some of them were, as if someone had tried to rip his brother's skin off. Lemay had been forced to stitch a few of them, but worse, some of them were beyond stitching, looking so bad that the physician had decided to cauterise them to get the infection out. And although d'Artagnan's screams had been muffled by the pillow, they had almost torn his heart apart…

But what really made him feel sick, was that he had had time to count them, all of them. Twenty-four. Twenty-four deep lashes, crisscrossing the boy's back. They would surely leave visible scars and he desperately wanted to know why. Why someone had done this to his little brother…

Swallowing thickly, Athos looked up to see how his brothers were doing.

Porthos had adopted his former expression of being ready to kill someone. His former hard grip on the boy's hips had loosened and now his hands were resting gently on d'Artagnan's thighs, refusing to pin him down any longer, but also yet unable to let go completely.

Aramis, who had had a hard time assisting Lemay and causing their youngest even more pain, was now rubbing an ointment onto the fresh scars, his hands as gentle as possible. The medic still was breathing heavily and every now and then a slight shiver wracked his body.

It was only then that the former 'comte' realised that his hands were trembling and that he was panting. Closing his eyes, he tightened his grip on the boy's shoulders once more, to ground himself, to reassure himself that d'Artagnan was still there. He couldn't lose him, he couldn't lose another brother. It would kill him.

*14AAA41*

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Captain Treville, who had never left the sickroom, but had been forced to watch, not willing to disturb, was deeply concerned. His men looked utterly spent, each one of them. He had never before seen his three best in such a state, so deeply exhausted in a mental way. As if they had suffered along with their youngest, with the boy that had so easily found his way into their hearts. After years of being a trio of inseparables, they had finally become a quartet. He had almost thought that could never happen, but d'Artagnan had simply fit in, as naturally as the fourth wheel on a cart. Watching Athos, Aramis, and Porthos' haggard expressions, the anger and worry edged on their faces, he realised, much to his own horror, that the loss of the boy would most probably kill them. Not immediately, of course, but in time.

Slowly stepping closer to Dr. Lemay, who was cleaning his instruments, he took a deep breath before asking the only important question.

"Will he make it?"

"Captain Treville," the physician acknowledged his presence.

"Dr. Lemay, tell me!" the Captain demanded, too weary to bother with niceties. "Will d'Artagnan survive?"

"Of course he will," the doctor answered, sounding slightly annoyed. "I've treated him in time, the infections have been cleaned out and although he has a fever and has lost some blood, there's no reason to believe he could die. I believe that the fever will vanish sometime by late tomorrow, and his wounds willheal. D'Artagnan is young and strong, he'll recover soon."

With a relieved sigh, Treville allowed himself to drop into the nearest chair, burying his face in his hands.

"He needs to rest for the next few days," Lemay continued, "…and he shouldn't move too much. And of course he can't wear his clothes since the wounds can't be bandaged properly. Any linen would only stick to those healing welts and reopen them when removed," Lemay continued. "He should stay here at least for the rest of the week."

"I don't know if his majesty would appreciate that," Treville replied somewhat ironically.

"Well, if he holds his musketeers in any regard then he won't object," the doctor stated.

The Captain merely huffed. "Right now I'm not sure about that," he mumbled to himself.

"What?" Lemay didn't understand.

"Nothing," Treville hurried to reply. Then he straightened. "Thank you for your help, Doctor. I know you're a busy man."

"There's nothing to thank me for, I'd always help the musketeers", Lemay responded. Packing his things back into his bag, he grabbed another tin with ointment and handed it Treville.

"Use this to cover the wounds as often as necessary. It will help with the healing and most probably lessen the scarring. Let d'Artagnan sleep as long as he can and if he awakes, try to make him drink. And give him some of this..." He took a little vial out of his bag. "It will help with the pain. But no more than ten drops every six hours." He grabbed his bag and was ready to leave. "I'll be back tomorrow to look at him."

"Thank you, Doctor," Treville said, rising to escort him to the door.

"Ah… by the way," Lemay stopped at the door and turned, eyeing the three men sitting on the bed, "…maybe you should try to make them rest, they look ready to collapse."

When the Captain nodded, Lemay moved to open the door, but the handle already moved on its own. Then the door opened and Constance came into view.

*14AAA41*

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"Dr. Lemay, good to see you. The queen sent me to fetch you, Marie seems to have tripped over something and cannot walk. And Danielle told me where to you went, so I…" stopping midsentence, Constance frowned at the sight before her.

Captain Treville, standing to her right at the table, looking weary, and three men that she knew all too well, sitting on the bed, all three with concerned expressions on their faces and watching a fourth who lay absolutely still. She took a step closer and saw Porthos, touching the lying man's legs, Aramis, sitting at his side, blocking his torso from her view and clinging to his rosary, and Athos, seated at the headboard, absently stroking through the man's dark hair. Hair, that she immediately recognised.

"D'Artagnan!"

Taking a faltering step, she wasn't surprised when she felt Treville grip her arm, steadying her. Shooting him a brief glance of gratitude, she quickly regained her composure and slowly moved closer to the bed. When Aramis turned his head to face her, she swallowed at the look of sorrow and exhaustion in his eyes. But it was the figure on the bed that attracted her attention and the sight of d'Artagnan's back made her knees buckle. Treville, who had followed her, quickly grabbed her under both arms and held her upright.

"What's happened?" she managed to ask after what seemed an eternity, expecting the Captain to tell her.

But it was Athos who answered her question, his voice sounding hollow and somehow guilty. "We don't know. He passed out before he could tell us."

"But he's been…"

"…whipped," Porthos ended her sentence. "Yes. But none of us knows when or why."

"He has obviously been punished for something during his captivity," Aramis fell in. "Sometime between yesterday and the time we found him and the king in the forest. Since no one tended to his wounds, they have become infected- that's why he's feverish now. And he's clearly beyond exhausted, which explains his continued unconsciousness."

"But I saw him at the church," she stated. "He smiled at me and seemed to be fine, albeit a bit bruised."

"The pup's way too good in hiding his injuries," Porthos grumbled. "One of the things he shouldn't have adopted from Athos."

The swordsman looked ready to protest, but simply resigned to nod wearily, an ironic smile tugging at his lips. It wasn't as if the other two didn't share this rather noxious behaviour.

"How could this happen?" she asked again, carefully touching one of d'Artagnan's arms.

"We never should have agreed to the king's wish," Athos murmured. "I knew it wouldn't end well. I never should have allowed…"

"You could do absolutely nothing against it!" Porthos almost shouted, noticing that Athos was already blaming himself again. "None of us could've guessed what would happen, that they would be kidnapped. None of us could've forbidden the king from going to the tavern like an ordinary man, we couldn't deny him his wish, let alone his order."

"But I should have found a way to talk him out…"

"Stop it!" Constance said. "Both of you!"

Stroking back d'Artagnan's hair, she took a deep breath. "You're not to blame," she murmured, concentrating on the man she still loved, although she couldn't admit it.

She felt the heat of his skin, saw the rapid, strained movement of his breaths and she ached with the sight of his shredded back. But he wasn't hers and it wasn't her task to care for him. She had duties to fulfil and put her trust in the fact that his brothers would look after him. However, there was one thing left that she could do…

*14AAA41*

.

When Constance looked up again, Athos met her gaze, astonished by the expression of determination she wore. Somehow he knew deep inside that she would go and talk to the queen, that she would find a way to show her anger about d'Artagnan's condition. Studying her, he recognised that she must know what had happened just hours ago, that she knew how badly the king had thanked d'Artagnan for his protection, and how upset she was about it. His insight made his stomach clench with worry.

Putting his hand over hers, he shook his head. "Don't," he murmured. "It's not worth it."

With an irritated snort she pulled her hand away and straightened to full health. "It's absolutely worth it," she objected. "Look at him and dare repeat that this-" She pointed angrily at the Gascon's back, "…isn't worth mentioning. He got hurt because he did his duty, because he protected the king from his own silly idea."

Several sharp inhales followed her statement, her just speaking out loud what all of the musketeer thought, but her words too close to the border of treason.

"Constance," Aramis hissed.

"We still don't know what happened, Constance," Athos admonished her, for once using her first name, abandoning courtesy. "D'Artagnan's prone to be reckless, to get himself into trouble, maybe…"

"No!" she cut him off. "He was on duty; he was the only one left to protect the king. He would never, never put him at risk, no matter the cost."

She now was clearly angry with him, that much Athos could read in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he immediately apologised. "But be that as may, d'Artagnan would never forgive me if I allowed you to place yourself in danger. Especially since he's expected to make a full recovery. So please, just let it be."

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't let it go. I witnessed her majesty's reaction when Captain Treville told her about the king's disappearance and I hated the injustice of it. But this, this is more than I can stand and regarding how the king treated him, and all of you, for his own stupidity, I cannot let the matter drop."

With a sigh Athos closed his eyes. He understood her, her anger, her desperate need to fight for d'Artagnan, for his reputation, his honour. But it wasn't her fight, was it?

"But I promise to be careful," she finally said, looking him in the eyes. And then she turned and left the room without looking back.

"Well…that was weird," Porthos stated. "Has she just gone to scold the king and queen? For our honour?"

"No," Aramis answered tiredly. "She's gone to fight for the one she loves. And maybe his friends as well…"

"Sometimes, she's almost too brave for her own good," Athos said. "Just like d'Artagnan."

"Madame Bonacieux is indeed an extraordinary woman," Treville added matter-of-factly, before he went over to the door. "I'll make sure that you get something to eat and drink, before I head back to the garrison. You three are off duty till the end of the week."

*14AAA41*

.

When d'Artagnan finally regained consciousness, it was to the half-loud voices of his brothers and the smell of stew.

Slowly peeling his eyes open, he barely managed to stifle the pained groan that threatened to escape from his mouth when he tried to move. Breathing carefully until the pain subsided, he concentrated on finding out about his surroundings first.

He was lying in a bed, with really white, almost pure linens, his head resting on a pillow as soft as he had never felt before. In his line of vision there was a window, directed towards… the palace garden, apparently. So he had to still be in the Louvre, maybe in one of the guest quarters. From the corner of his eye, he could just about see one of his brothers, Athos, sitting at what must be a table, absent-mindedly stirring his spoon in his bowl.

Taking stock of his condition, he felt his back hurt, worse than ever since he had been whipped in the morning, but somehow he knew that had to be a good sign. Someone had taken care of him.

Trying to remember how he had ended up right here, he recalled the summoning from the king, the scolding and that he had finally collapsed in the corridor. Well, not really surprising considering the fact that he had, once again, ignored his injury far too long.

Obviously…

Taking a careful, deep breath, he tried to find the bravery to try moving again. Agonizingly slowly, he moved his right arm until it lay right in front of his eyes. Gathering his strength, he then lifted his head while simultaneously trying to push himself up. Only to hiss and hold his breath when the very attempt to do so made the pain in his back flare.

"D'Artagnan!"

His noises had obviously alarmed his brothers, hearing Athos call his name only confirmed it. Letting his head drop again, he let the groan escape his mouth while waiting for the three of them to reach him. It didn't take long till there was a hand at his neck, checking for his pulse, another cupping his cheek, and a third one gently tapping his arm.

"D'Artagnan?"

This time, Athos' voice was full of concern, so the Gascon forced his eyes open again, only to find his mentor's intense, green eyes staring at him.

"Hello," he croaked.

"Hello," the swordsman replied, a small, relieved smile in his face. "It's good to see you awake. You had us all worried."

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"How do you feel?" Aramis' face appeared directly beside Athos'.

"Like someone's been trying to peel my skin off," he admitted frankly, too tired and exhausted, and in far too much pain to mince words. "It really hurts…"

"Wait…" Aramis disappeared from his vision. "Dr. Lemay's left something for you."

"Do you think you can drink something?" Athos asked.

"Not as long as I'm lying here like this," he complained. Once more trying to push himself onto his left side, he bit his lips to stifle the scream.

"Let us help," Porthos deep voice suggested from behind him.

"Mmh-hm…"

"I'll put your left arm under your body," Porthos informed him. "And then Athos and I will turn you over – slowly."

Signalising his assent with a barely visible nod, d'Artagnan readied himself for the surely coming pain. But thanks to the gentle help of his friends, it remained bearable.

When he was finally lying on his left side, Athos nudged his lips with a cup. The swordsman supported his head and helped him to drink. Emptying the cup left him a bit breathless and he closed his eyes to regain some of his strength.

"What happened?"

Athos's silent question startled him and he opened his eyes again. Seeing all of his brothers look at him, he sighed.

"I protected the king," he simply said, letting his eyes slid close.

"But…" Porthos started to inquire.

"Not now, Porthos," he heard Athos interrupt him.

Then he felt his mentor's hand at his cheek. "D'Artagnan, stay awake. You need to drink more, you're a bit feverish. Another cup, maybe two, then you can go back to sleep."

Fighting his leaden eyelids, he struggled to face the worried man in front of him.

"Promise?" he slurred.

"Yes. I promise. Come on then, drink this."

Again, it was Athos who held his head and helped him drink, slowly and with much patience. He managed another two cups of water, the last one tasting just a bit odd. Furrowing his brows, he thought about asking why, but his question was anticipated by Aramis.

"It's laudanum, it's against the pain. And it will most likely make you sleep during the rest of the day. But don't worry, it'll only do you good."

"Mmh…" Concentrating on breathing, he patiently waited for the pain to diminish. He felt his brothers touch him, easily recognising their different ways to make him comfortable.

Porthos, whose hands were warm and steady, resting at his hip.

Aramis, nimble fingers stroking his arms.

And Athos, his calloused hand carding through his hair, pushing the errant strands away.

"Stay?" he asked, suddenly feeling scared, remembering the time he had been on his own, with the lone responsibility for the king's life. A burden, almost too heavy to carry alone.

"Of course. We'll be here when you awake," Athos promised.

"We would never leave you," Porthos added.

"Never," Aramis confirmed.

"Good," he mumbled, fumbling for someone's hand to hold onto. He found Athos'. "I'd never doubt that…" he murmured sleepily, just before Morpheus took him.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** Thank you to Debbie and Guest06 for your reviews, they're appreciated. And thanks to everyone who follows and has favorited this story so far, I'm glad to have your support. _

_Let's go and see how Constance gets on..._

 ** _Happy easter to everyone!_**

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 ***Three***

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Still fuming about the injustice of the past two days, Constance returned to the queen's chambers.

She had been angry before with her majesty, because of what she had said when they had been informed that the king and d'Artagnan had gone missing. As if d'Artagnan or anyone of the musketeers would ever put the king in danger deliberately! None of them would suggest that his majesty leave the safety of his palace and join the commoners, let alone dress himself like one and pretend to be one of them. But they also couldn't forbid him to do so or try to talk him out of it. Louis was ego-centric, often childish and much too conceited to listen to his musketeers, he would never think about such a thing since they weren't the tiniest bit equal in his eyes. And when he had made a decision, it had to be done. Without questioning.

Of course, in that moment she had been able to understand her majesty's reaction. Queen Anne had surely been deeply worried, her son just a few weeks old, the baptism scheduled for the next day and her husband, the king, missing. She had obviously been out of her mind then, but yet… Blaming the musketeers had simply been as wrong then as it had been today. That those royals weren't able to accept responsibility for their own stupid decisions…

Exhaling audibly, she entered the room, where she would most likely find the queen, Marie, and Lemay. As upset as she still was, maybe the wisest course of action would be to keep her distance, but then the queen would send someone to look for her. So she had to pull herself together, smile and wait till she was alone with her majesty. She clearly couldn't speak plainly, but she would find a way to let her anger show and then Anne would ask her about it.

It was almost an hour later, Dr. Lemay had finished looking at Marie's sprained ankle and the other two ladies-in-waiting had escorted her to her own chamber, when Constance finally found herself alone with the queen. Constance had been overly-polite, but taciturn, which had caused her majesty to survey her every so often. So now the queen's confidante felt quite sure that Anne had noticed something was off. After all, the queen wasn't stupid, and now that she had her husband back and the scandal had been avoided, she could probably think like a sensible human being again.

"Would you mind telling me, Constance, why you're angry with me?"

Constance couldn't help, but smile. Of course her majesty would go straight, just as she ever had, since Constance had become her confidante, thanks to d'Artagnan. And, of course, Anne had noticed her bad mood and her subtle anger.

"It's about my words yesterday?" the queen added, walking over to her and gripping her hand. "You know that I was deeply worried, don't you? And therefore probably a little bit unfair?"

When Constance didn't answer, Anne continued. "I know that d'Artagnan would never place the king in danger. And I also know that it was neither his nor his friends fault, that they were kidnapped." She shuddered at the memory and then she sighed. "I know that Louis can be…" she hesitated briefly, "…difficult. Especially when something crosses his mind that's rather unusual. I'm quite sure that it was his idea to go to that tavern, to pretend at being a commoner. Sometimes, he is a little bit unworldly…"

"A **little** bit unworldly?" A disbelieving snort accompanied the first words Constance spoke.

Anne shrugged and merely raised her brows, before she asked again. "So, what is the problem? That the king blamed d'Artagnan and his friends for the unfortunate events of the last three days?"

"Unfortunate events?" Constance repeated, sounding audibly annoyed. Her anger made her forget about being careful and she simply let out what was driving her mad.

"The king thought it a reward to ask d'Artagnan to kill someone in cold blood. He blamed him for putting him in danger, although his musketeer did everything to protect him. And, on top of that, d'Artagnan got flogged before they could escape, badly enough that he collapsed just after the scolding and now lies with a fever and his back shredded!" No longer able to fight her tears, which she had suppressed since she had seen her love, unconscious and wounded, she allowed them to trickle down her face.

The queen, who had paled during her last sentences, hesitated not a second and, abandoning all inhibitions, pulled her confidante into a fierce hug.

"Oh Constance," the queen murmured. "I'm sorry."

The cloth merchant's wife stiffened at first, but then she allowed herself to be comforted by her queen. But only for a short moment, and never forgetting about their difference in status. Then Constance pulled away and took a deep, steadying breath.

"My apologies, your majesty. I lost control," she murmured.

"No need for apologies, Constance," Anne replied. "You're worried, just as I was yesterday. Tell me, how is d'Artagnan?" The queen really wanted to know how the musketeer, whom her confidante silently loved, was doing.

"They told me he will recover. But he was unconscious when I saw him, and his wounds have become infected, so he's currently fighting a fever."

"And he's been whipped?" the queen asked disbelievingly.

"There are deep, bloody welts on his skin," Constance answered, shuddering when she remembered the look of her love. "Many of them, criss-crossing his back and making it look like…" she swallowed convulsively and then shook her head.

Anne contemplated her explanations for awhile, before she spoke again. "You suppose that happened during their captivity?"

"It must have," her confidante said. "But no one knows when or why. D'Artagnan hasn't been able to tell yet."

"Well, I know someone who knows… And I'm going to ask him right now."

*14AAA41*

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Entering Louis' office after a brief knock, the queen found her husband sitting together with the 'comte' de Rochefort. Seemingly, the two men were still discussing the events of the last few days, at least Louis was complaining about the ordeal he had suffered; and raved about the woman who had aided in his rescue. With a sad smile, she noticed his glooming eyes and immediately guessed that said woman would most likely become the king's next mistress. Not that she was surprised by that fact, but it stung nonetheless.

"May I have a moment in private, my consort?" she interrupted them, abandoning the falsehood of courtesy they kept up when in public.

Rochefort seemed willing to admonish her, clear in the way he furrowed his brows, but since Louis immediately rose and walked over to her, he resigned to annoyed silence.

"Of course, my dear," the king said, taking her hand and leading her to the desk. He briefly looked over to the Captain of the Red Guards, who was bowing deeply. "Rochefort, leave us. I'll send for you later." Louis thoughtlessly dismissed the blonde man, concentrating on his wife.

"What do you wish to discuss, Anne?" he asked, as soon as the 'comte' had left.

Pondering how to start without alienating her husband, the queen decided to begin with a simple question. "Are you still angry with your musketeers, Sire?"

Louis inhaled deeply, as if he would start to rant again, but after looking into her face, he kept silent.

Anne sighed. Of course not. Louis' anger was most times short-lived and when he had been unfair, he often regretted it afterwards. But he certainly never apologized, because he was the king and the king was never wrong. Only when they were among themselves he admitted his errors. Sometimes…

"I may have over-reacted a little bit," he said. "It wasn't their fault that I got captured. And they surely couldn't foresee such a thing. But why are you asking about this?"

"Because d'Artagnan lies in one of the guest quarters, injured."

"Yes, Rochefort told me about this. Irritating, isn't it? One of my musketeers simply collapsing in the corridors of my palace."

Shaking her head in mild despair, the queen sighed again. "Well… It didn't cross your mind then, that this might have something to do with your captivity?"

"Of course not. Why should it? He only fulfilled his duty."

"You know your musketeer has been flogged, don't you? You must have witnessed it," Anne pressed.

And then, suddenly, Louis' eyes went wide. "Dear God… I forgot!" he exclaimed. "That happened because of me!" And in a moment of rare honesty, he told his wife what had happened that morning…

*14AAA41*

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Athos, Aramis and Porthos were seated around the table, quietly playing a game of cards. D'Artagnan was still deeply asleep, all the better for him. More than four hours had passed since the boy had wakened briefly and slowly the three of them were feeling their own exhaustion. They had been searching for the king and their brother continuously for two days, not even resting during the night. And now that it was all over, and d'Artagnan and the king were back to safety, they all fought their heavy eyelids.

Aramis was the first to give in to his exhaustion and throw down his cards.

"Gentlemen, I suggest we call this day to an end and make ourselves comfortable. Our pup will most likely sleep throughout the night and I see no need to keep watch. Since the bed is big enough, one of us could share with him and since there are enough pillows and blankets, the other can make a bed on the floor. Unless," he winked at Athos, "you'd prefer to sleep in the chair."

The medic walked over to the bed and took the tin from the nightstand. He would put another layer of the salve on the boy's back in an attempt to keep the scars as small as possible. He heard the screeching of his friends' chairs and then Porthos was on the other side of the bed, grabbing some of the bedding and tossing it on the floor.

"I'll take the floor," the burly musketeer grumbled.

"The chair's…" Athos started.

"…not for you, Athos," Aramis interrupted him. "You know how fitfully I sleep, it would do the boy no good if I tangled myself with him, so you will share with him. Besides… You know how much he idolises you – still."

The swordsman opened his mouth to protest, when without warning the door flew open and their monarch marched into the room.

All three musketeers instantly jumped to their feet, building a protective line before the bed, and bowed deeply.

"Your majesty," Athos managed to greet the king. "To what do we owe ourselves the pleasure of your presence?"

"I came to look after d'Artagnan," Louis told them. "The queen told me about his injury and I decided to make sure that he's well cared for. After all, he got injured because he did his duty."

Whilst speaking, the king walked closer to the bed, trying to get a look at the Gascon. Athos, who realised his intentions first, nodded to Aramis and the medic moved a bit to the side.

Walking past the three musketeers, Louis could finally see the injured man, and stopped dead, sucking in a terrified breath. "What…?"

Porthos, Aramis and Athos exchanged confused looks. Their sovereign was acting strange; never before had they seen him worrying for one of them. Could this possibly be Constance's doing?

"Your majesty?" Athos finally dared approach the unmoving king, who was still staring at the horrible sight that was d'Artagnan's back.

When Louis turned his head and looked at him, shattered, the former 'comte' decided to take this to their advantage.

"Could you possibly tell us what happened? D'Artagnan couldn't speak too much when he was awake and we really want to know…" he let his voice fade, when he saw the expression of regret on the king's face.

"This happened because of me," Louis admitted, untypically frank, obviously forgetting about the difference in status between him and the other men in the room.

Taking another long look at the unconscious man, the king breathed deeply before he turned to face the men that were the Gascon's closest friends.

He really expected to see anger in their eyes, but there was only confusion and concern.

He suddenly remembered how he had scolded them, had taken out his anger, his fear on them. And none of them had protested, hadn't even shown the slightest sign of frustration about his injustice. Yes, he was the king and the king was always right… Except the few times he was wrong.

Anne had been right, he had wronged his musketeers, he understood that now. Just as he began to understood why d'Artagnan had rejected his offer. As the young man had said: they were soldiers, his soldiers, and not executioners.

"Forgive me, your majesty," Athos carefully addressed the king, who seemed to be lost in his thoughts. "What do you mean 'that happened because of you'? If you don't mind telling us, of course."

Louis hesitated for a moment, but after another quick look at d'Artagnan's back, which forced him to swallow, he harrumphed.

"Well… after we managed to escape the first time, we were caught again rather quickly, after tumbling down a hill. We were dragged back to the camp and then…"

*14AAA41*

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 _ **Flashback:**_

" _Who are you?" the leader asked. "Tell me," he demanded, pulling his pistol from his belt. "Or_ _ **he**_ _dies!" He aimed the pistol at d'Artagnan, but looked inquiringly at Louis._

 _His musketeer, ignoring the threat, turned towards him and whispered, "Don't…"_

 _But he couldn't stand it any longer and so he decided to answer the question. "I am Louis, son of Henry the fourth, of the house of Bourbon, and Marie de Medici. I am your king; you can not treat me like this!" And then he pulled his arm back and punched the damn man in his face, making him stumble._

 _Their captor quickly recovered and faced them again, wiping with his sleeve over his mouth and offering them a dangerous smile. The man obviously didn't believe a single word of what he had told him. "If you're the king, I'm the pope," he sneered. Then he nodded towards two of his men. "Take him and strip him down to the waist, I'll show this slave the consequences of revolting against his master. A dozen lashes with the whip might do the trick…"_

" _No!" Stepping protectively in front of him, d'Artagnan intervened. "I can't let you do this."_

 _Lifting his brows, the leader cocked his head. "Well, this is going to get interesting._ _ **You**_ _are telling_ _ **me**_ _, that I can't punish_ _ **him**_ _?" He sneered, pointing at Louis._

" _I won't let you," the musketeer confirmed._

 _Huffing with amusement, the man looked around the camp. "I could simply shoot you first and then punish him," he said, aiming again at the young man, "but that would be wasting money. So, here is my_ _ **offer**_ _," he enhanced the word ironically. "You take his place, deliberately and without resistance. Your friend will be allowed to support you, if he wishes, but you must not move nor make any noise, otherwise I'll punish him as well. Ah, and not to forget, there will be two dozen lashes for you, because you dared oppose me. And if you pass out, before it's done, then I'll kill both of you, bugger the money!" He paused briefly, smiling at the kings' shocked expression. "Understood?"_

" _Understood," d'Artagnan confirmed, already starting to undress himself._

 _Unable to say anything, unable to move, Louis simply stared at his musketeer, who had shed his doublet and was pulling his shirt over his head. This was impossible, it simply couldn't happen. Looking around for some sort of support, he found nothing but empty faces. Maybe if he'd tell those thugs once again that he was the king, they would believe him._

 _Opening his mouth to speak, he let it close when he saw d'Artagnan shake his head minutely. "Don't…" his musketeer whispered again. Then the young man straightened himself to full height._

" _I'm ready."_

" _Well then, let's get started," their captor said, sounding highly delighted. He took the whip from the hand of one of his men and walked some steps backwards, estimating the distance needed._

 _D'Artagnan couldn't see it, or he wasn't interested, but Louis had a clear view of the whip. A thin, but obviously strong leather string, with glittering pieces, maybe shards of metal or something similar, knotted into it, meant to cause a hell of pain. He swallowed nervously. Although he hadn't seen something similar before, he could imagine quite well, what damage it would do to a man's body. To his musketeer's body…_

" _Step back, your majesty," d'Artagnan spoke quietly. "You needn't stay with me."_

 _Impressed by the bravery of the young man he had commissioned not long ago, he shook his head. "No, I'll stand with you. It's the least I can do." He lifted his arms and gestured the Gascon to grip his forearms to steady himself. That d'Artagnan managed to smile at him, gratefully and sincerely, astonished him even more._

" _Thank you, your majesty," the musketeer murmured. "I hope you won't regret this." He even winked at him, making him shake his head with some kind of amused, but sad pride._

" _Remember," the man with the whip said. "No sound, no movements, except a little flinch, maybe." He let the whip crack in the air. "Here we go!"_

 _Louis couldn't help but flinch in d'Artagnan's stead when the first stroke hit the young man's back, whilst the musketeer merely held his breath briefly. But he neither moved nor made any sound, simply gripping his arms and breathing slowly. This lasted through the first twelve lashes, but he could see the effort his immobility took on the Gascon. When the flogging continued, d'Artagnan started to flinch ever so slightly, squeezing his eyes shut with every impact. His breathing hitched more and more frequently and he bit his lips to stifle the sounds that threatened to escape his mouth. The young man's grip at his arms became vice-like, but Louis didn't mind the pain. If he thereby could help him trough his ordeal, then it was worth it._ Only four more to go _, he thought, when he noticed d'Artagnan swaying the first time. Intensifying his own grip at his musketeer's arms, the king accomplished to prevent him from stumbling._ Three more _… he registered d'Artagnan panting for breath…_ Two… _he saw the Gascon biting down hard on his lip to stifle a scream…_ One _…_

 _And then it was done, their captor letting his arm drop, chest heaving from exertion, but seemingly impressed. Though he said nothing, but simply turned and walked away._

" _Is it… over?"_

 _D'Artagnan's strained voice startled him, but he managed a nod. "Yes," he said, when he noticed that the young man's eyes were tightly closed. As if that had been the needed affirmation, the musketeer's legs gave out under him and he dropped to his knees with a groan._


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Thanks to Guest06 and Debbie for your reviews, your opinion means a lot. And once more thanks to those who follow and favorited this story, I'm glad you like it._

 _Sorry for the delay but I got distracted by 'The Musketeers' today... ;)_

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 ***Four***

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The silence was deafening, and it lasted.

Louis, who had closed his eyes soon after he had started to speak, shuddered, as if to shake off the memory he had just recalled. Now that he had told the story, he realised why he had been so angry. He had been frightened, terrified by the events of the last few days. And he wanted nobody to see that. And yet… somehow he had liked those close moments during their captivity, when he and d'Artagnan had been almost equal. He often wished he had someone near his own age to speak freely with, as a man, a friend, not a ruler. But that had only been an illusion; he knew that the musketeer would never see him as a friend, despite the moments they had shared.

"Knew he would become the heroic one," Porthos' fond murmuring broke the silence.

His words were followed by a snort from Athos and a chuckle from Aramis. But even the king noticed the pride that lay within their utterances.

"I went down together with d'Artagnan and was barely able to prevent him from toppling over," Louis continued his tale after a moment. "He was panting heavily and barely accomplished to stay conscious. Suddenly, someone appeared at our side, one of our fellow captives. He brought a cup of water that d'Artagnan emptied gratefully. And he had a wet piece of cloth, with which he carefully dabbed at his back. But that only caused d'Artagnan more pain. I couldn't stand seeing him grimacing and tensing under the ministrations, so I stopped the man. I didn't dare look at his back, so we simply knelt in the dirt for a while, him still gripping my arms," the king stopped and pushed his sleeves up, looking thoughtfully at the marks of fingers at his arms. "I supported him whilst he fought to regain his composure, talked to him to keep him conscious, for I feared if he passed out, they would kill him. Some minutes later d'Artagnan took one last deep breath, opened his eyes and asked for his clothes. I helped him dress, rather surprised that he simply put his shirt and doublet back on as if nothing had happened. And then the camp was attacked and due to the following shouting and fighting and running, I forgot what had happened, because d'Artagnan just acted as expected from a musketeer and got me out of it."

Once more, silence settled over the room. Louis looked up and locked eyes with one of the musketeers, the one always dressed in black, with the scar on his lip. _Athos, that's his name_ , he suddenly remembered. _Athos, Aramis and Porthos, the three Inseparables. No, now they're four_ … He couldn't really define the other man's look, but somehow he felt guilty.

"I should have remembered," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "How could I forget?"

*14AAA41*

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"Well…" Athos hesitatingly began, before taking another breath and smirking briefly. "D'Artagnan is quite talented when it comes to hiding injuries; we've experienced it more often than we would have liked. And considering all that has happened, it's no wonder that you didn't remember, your majesty. After all, you barely made it to your son's baptism."

"But **we** should have noticed, Athos," Aramis chipped in.

"How?" the swordsman asked, momentarily forgetting about the king's presence. "He fought with us against the mercenaries, he even killed Lemaitre with the man's own sword and he never flagged. So how should we have noticed?"

The medic shrugged. "I admit his behaviour was really distracting. He showed no sign of weakness; I noticed that something was wrong only when he staggered during the audience."

"Wait," the king's voice cut in, sounding demanding. "He killed that other Lemaitre? So why did he refuse to kill the brother?"

"Forgive me, your majesty, but killing the man you asked him to, would have been murder. Killing the other was self-defence, it happened during a fight," Athos explained.

"It would have been an execution, because I sentenced him to death," Louis protested.

"But you granted him clemency shortly before," Aramis dared object. "And our Gascon simply isn't capable of killing someone in cold blood. He would do everything to defend those he loves and those he's sworn to protect, even if that meant sacrificing himself, but he couldn't kill a defenceless man."

Athos made a hissing noise, fearing that their sovereign's wrath would once more come upon them. But Louis surprised him.

"I think I understand," the king finally said. "It seems that I've wronged d'Artagnan and that I have to apologize."

Athos couldn't help but look at their ruler with astonishment and some sort of sincere respect. Exchanging a quick look with his brothers, he noticed the same surprised expression. For whatever reason, Louis allowed them to see a completely other side of his being, the normal, the ordinary one. He didn't know what consequences this might have- if the king even remembered it the next day or if he maybe regretted the familiarity of this day. But for now he appreciated it, just as his brothers obviously did, and it even compensated for the unfair scolding they had received some hours ago.

*14AAA41*

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"There's no need for apologies, your majesty," a hoarse voice from the bed startled everyone. "I merely did my duty."

"D'Artagnan," Aramis exclaimed, rushing over to the bed, where the Gascon was attempting to sit up. "You shouldn't move, lad," he said, trying to stop him.

But the boy shook his head and continued shifting till he managed to push his legs out of the bed. The gravity helped him to rise, but the movement caused a white flash of pain in his back. Closing his eyes, he groaned and tried to steady himself with his hands on the mattress beside him. But that only worsened the searing pain and elicited dark spots, dancing in his vision. He held his breath, desperately fighting to regain his composure and prevent himself from passing out.

"D'Artagnan, breathe!" This was Athos' voice and those were Athos' hands gripping his shoulder and his arm, preventing him from tilting sideways.

On his other side he felt Aramis' presence, supporting him. "Breathe, d'Artagnan, or you'll pass out from lack of air," the medic admonished him.

Releasing a shaky breath, he did his best to follow the advice and inhaled slowly. For a few more minutes, his breathing was unsteady, more like panting, but eventually he managed to return to a somewhat normal breathing pattern.

"Stupid pup."

The Gascon couldn't help but grin beneath his pained grimaces, when he heard Porthos grousing. Opening his eyes, he saw his brothers surrounding him and smiled, though it came across more like a grimace than a smile.

"You really shouldn't move around," Aramis scolded mildly. Then he sighed. "But you never listen to any medical advices, do you?"

The young musketeer shrugged and winced, when that made the pain flare again.

"Damn," he silently cursed.

*14AAA41*

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Whilst everyone was concentrating on the injured man, the king could only stand, watch, and wonder. Either this Gascon was the most stubborn and reckless man he had ever met, or the bravest one. That caused him to feel even more guilty for treating him so badly. Yes, d'Artagnan had seen him weak and scared, but he surely wouldn't speak of it.

His breath hitched when he established eye contact with his newest musketeer. Although the young man must have been disappointed from their meeting some hours before, there was nevertheless a deep, sincere loyalty in his eyes. He had chosen to protect him, his sovereign, regardless of the consequences. No matter that he could've died while preventing him from being murdered, or that he was treated unfairly, blamed for decisions he didn't make.

Flicking short glances to the young man's companions, Louis recognised the same determination in their eyes, although the older men's expressions were much more restrained. They had experienced more danger, treason and injustice than the youngest had, and still…

Exhaling audibly, Louis took a step closer to the bed, to come within reaching distance.

*14AAA41*

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"Help me up," d'Artagnan called for his brothers.

"You really should lay back down," Aramis told him instead, while Porthos simply shook his head.

"You're too damn stubborn for your own good, whelp," the burly musketeer said.

Only Athos seemed to understand and simply tightened his grip. Raising his eyebrows, he made Aramis do the same, while Porthos took the boy's hands, and together they helped their little brother rise from the bed.

Hissing through his teeth, d'Artagnan swayed dangerously, but he didn't collapse. Instead, he breathed deeply and, after regaining his equilibrium, gestured to his friends to let go of him.

"Thank you, "he murmured in a half-loud voice, before he concentrated on the king, standing right before him.

He saw the marks of his fingers on his monarch's forearms and smiled. "My apologies, your majesty. I told you, you might regret your assistance."

Seeing the confused expression of his ruler, the Gascon nodded towards Louis' arms.

Louis followed his look and understood. "Oh…that…" He looked back up and returned the smile. "That's nothing. On the contrary, it's my honour to wear the signs of your bravery on my skin."

Stunned silence settled over the room.

"Besides," the king continued, "they will fade. But yours will not. And I'm sorry for it."

D'Artagnan shook his head, carefully. "As I told you before, there's no need for apologies, your majesty. I did what I had to do to protect you. Just as I would do again."

"Well… that might be true. However, you were punished because I didn't listen, because I aggravated that thug. And so it is my fault that you're injured now."

The Gascon started to protest, but a sudden wave of dizziness made him stumble and only the quick help of his brothers prevented his fall. He couldn't stifle the pained groan that escaped him and found himself forced to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.

"For God's sake, man," Louis exclaimed. "Lay down again before you worsen your injuries. That's an order," he added, foreseeing the objection.

"You heard his majesty, d'Artagnan," Athos took the opportunity and guided the young man back down onto the bed. "Sit down."

*14AAA41*

.

When the newest musketeer was seated on the bed again, the king simply grabbed a nearby chair and sat down himself. Then he mustered the injured man in front of him, took in the beads of sweat on his forehead and the lines of pain in his face.

"I think I understand now, why you rejected my _reward_ ," he started, the ironic enhancement of the last word clearly audible. "No, you don't need to explain yourself," he waved the young man's protest away. "Your friends already made it clear why you couldn't do it. Though, your strong sense of justice and human dignity sometimes does you no favour, does it?" Not really waiting for an answer, he simply proceeded. "I treated you unfairly, you and your friends. It was **my** idea to go to that tavern. **I** decided to make myself a commoner and I wasn't happy with the things I experienced, feigning to be one. To be honest, I was scared," he admitted.

His honesty stunned the musketeers once more and they looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

"As was I," d'Artagnan eventually confessed as well. "There's no reason to be ashamed of it. We were captured by slave traders, in no position to fight them or to escape. And although it was unwise to tell them who you are, it was brave. They could have simply killed us there and then."

"Unwise?" Louis repeated, an amused grin forming on his face.

The young man opposite him merely raised his brows and cocked his head. Once more, the king remembered the time he and d'Artagnan had wandered through the woods during their failed escape attempt, and had shared their childhood memories. The thought, he had had before, floated back into his mind and he privately asked himself what it would be like, to have someone like d'Artagnan as his friend. Right in this moment, he felt absolutely sure that he could trust d'Artagnan with anything, that the young man, who was just a few years younger than him, would never disappoint him. If they could be friends….

But that was impossible and he knew it. And he regretted it, deeply, feeling a sting of envy that the other men in this room, d'Artagnan's brothers in arms, had what he, the king of France, couldn't have. He had to be content with having their loyalty. He couldn't even demand their respect, that he knew now. But he could earn it, maybe had just started to do it with his honesty today.

"However," the king started the conversation again, "I've wronged you and I want to make amends. So tell me, d'Artagnan, is there anything you need?"

The Gascon couldn't help himself, but grin, seeing his brothers' bewildered expressions. Maybe he was a bit more used to their sovereign's strange behaviour- after all, they had spent two days and nights together. That certainly didn't imply that he knew the king, nor could foretell his actions or decisions. However, for now he had a question that needed answering.

"I do not want any kind of reward, your majesty, nor do you need to make amends," he started. Noticing that the king as well as his brothers were ready to argue against his words, he quickly continued. "But if I might ask a favour?"

"Of course," Louis hastened to say.

"Do you remember Pepín?" d'Artagnan asked.

The king furrowed his brows, obviously trying to remember the name. He must know him, otherwise d'Artagnan wouldn't have asked him. After a moment it came back to him.

"The dark-skinned man that you and I carried? The one who brought you the water?"

"The one who died, giving us cover," the Gascon supplied, sadness in his eyes.

Louis had the decency to look embarrassed. "I forgot him, too," he murmured.

"He had a family," d'Artagnan informed him. "He told me during the first night. His daughter is just seven years old. And she and her mother have no one to look after them now."

"So?" the king inquired.

"So… maybe you can let them have whatever you see fit to reward me with."

*14AAA41*

.

When the king had finally left, after promising that he would see to d'Artagnan's wish, the three older musketeers helped their youngest to lie down again. The Gascon even accepted the pain reliever voluntarily, which spoke volumes to his brothers. Aramis reached for the tin with the balm, but Athos beat him to it. Sitting down near his injured little brother, he slathered his wounds so gently, that d'Artagnan looked up at him in mild confusion. Seeing the all present guilt in his oldest brother's eyes, the boy pushed away the haze brought about by the laudanum and gripped Athos' hand.

"You do know it wasn't your fault, don't you? You couldn't possibly foresee what would happen, that we would be captured."

"But I should have talked him out of it," the former 'comte' retorted, still concentrating at his task with his free hand.

"We're speaking of the king, Athos. Nobody would have been able to talk him out of it and you know that," d'Artagnan protested tiredly. "So please, stop bearing all of the guilt of the world on your shoulders."

Aramis and Porthos stopped with their preparations for the night and turned to the bed, right in time to watch Athos tense and hold his breath. They started to walk over to the bed, but when Athos slowly exhaled they halted their steps.

"I…" the swordsman started to speak, but was searching for words.

D'Artagnan squeezed his hand. "I know, it's difficult for you. But please, just try once," he mumbled.

"But you've been hurt be…"

"No, don't dare say 'because of me'," the Gascon jumped down his throat, struggling to push himself up again and hissing through his teeth, because the laudanum hadn't taken much effect on the pain yet.

After a second of stunned surprise, Athos stopped his efforts and gently pushed d'Artagnan back onto the mattress. "You really should listen just once to Aramis' advice, d'Artagnan. Stay in bed so that you can heal."

The injured man snorted. "Pot, meet kettle," he said, a pained smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Athos just gave him 'the stare', although he lifted a corner of his mouth as well.

"What about a compromise?" his youngest brother asked, sounding tired and exhausted.

The swordsman merely lifted one of his brows.

"I stay in bed, although I really hate it, as you all know too well, and you…." d'Artagnan made a short break, trying to make eye contact with the former 'comte'.

"And me?"

"You stop blaming yourself for our captivity and my injuries."

Aramis and Porthos, who had finished making themselves comfortable for the night, looked up and chuckled fondly. "You should listen to the pup, Athos," the medic told him.

"I'd say his proposal sounds good," Porthos agreed. "You know, he'll keep his promise, which would make our job much easier."

Athos merely sighed, then he nodded. "So be it. But you'll stay in bed as long as Aramis tells you to do so," he emphasized.

The Gascon just huffed, but gripped his mentor's hand again. "Deal," he said with a small, tired, but proud grin.

"Deal."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _And again, thanks to Debbie and Guest06 for your reviews, as always you made me smile._

 _Debbie: It wasn't just you who started to hate Louis for his behaviour, I did likewise. But it's a futile hope to see the king and d'Artagnan becoming friends, because that's just out of reality. So that's what fanfiction for... ;) By the way, season 3 is streamed live on Turkish tv (English language), episode one has been aired almost a week ago. And it's great!_

 _Thanks as well to all of you out there, who are following my little tale. And of course to those who favorited it! I appreciate it!_

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 ***Five***

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.

 _About a week later…._

 _._

"You're sure, d'Artagnan?"

Athos scrutinized the young musketeer standing opposite to him with an intensive glare. His little brother had left his sickbed only a day ago, after Aramis had him allowed to do so.

The Gascon had kept his promise and stayed in bed, except the necessary visits to the chamber pot, of course. He hadn't complained once; instead, he'd been a compliant patient, tolerating Aramis' fussing and enduring the painful, regular procedures of cleaning his wounds without a word. Now his back was healing as well as expected, some of the welts transforming into rather ugly scars, but none seeping any more. He was still moving rather stiffly and one needn't be a clairvoyant to know that he still was in pain.

Athos had never been at the receiving end of a whip, but he could imagine how the linen of a shirt must scrub against the tender flesh. Adding the pressure of the leather doublet and the cloak to it must be even more painful. But despite all that, d'Artagnan had joined the morning muster this morning, declaring himself fit for duty again and, after a shrug from their resident medic, Treville had accepted it. So whilst the quartet was now getting ready to leave for the palace, being assigned on guard duty today for the arrival of some highborn visitor from a foreign country, Athos felt the need to make sure that d'Artagnan was indeed ready to meet the king again.

The former 'comte' watched a flash of testiness cross the boy's face, but it quickly transformed into some kind of gratitude. Obviously their pup was sick of their caretaking on the one hand, and grateful for it on the other.

Breathing deeply, d'Artagnan finally answered his question. "I'm not made of glass, Athos, and I'll surely be capable of standing idly around for half a day," he said with a smirk.

"Then let's just hope it'll be no more than that," the swordsman muttered under his breath.

But his youngest brother had caught his words and now looked slightly disgruntled.

"What your grumpy big brother meant to say," Porthos chipped in, "is that he's still concerned for your well-being and doesn't wish you to be hurt again. Not that you're not fit for duty." He grinned broadly and carefully put his arm around their youngest' shoulders, steering him toward the garrison gates.

"Maybe he's just speaking for himself," Aramis added with a smirk, joining the pair at the Gascon's other side. "After all, it was a hard evening yesterday and his head might still throb from its unexpected contact with the wall."

The medic was alluding to the chase after a thief the three elder musketeers had stumbled upon on their way back from the palace. It had ended unfortunately for their oldest, who had been shoved against a house wall by a man about Porthos' size, hitting it hard with his head. Obviously, one of the thief's friends had guarded the retreating man's back, attacking the first who rounded the corner, which had been Athos. The swordsman had blacked out briefly and when he regained his senses, he had felt blood trickling down the left side of his head. Aramis and Porthos had taken him back to the garrison where the medic had tended to the gash beyond his hairline. Additionally, the Spaniard had diagnosed first signs of a concussion and tried to convince the former 'comte' to stay off duty for a day. But as usual, Athos had simply ignored his advice and was now, indeed, nursing an annoying headache combined with brief moments of dizziness. He had regretted his decision as soon as he had left his quarters, exchanging the dim light of his room with the bright, painful light of the morning sun. But, being almost as stubborn as their Gascon, at least concerning his own welfare, there was no way that he would change his mind now and stay behind.

Following his leaving brothers with his gaze, he breathed deeply, trying to drive the dizziness and the headache away, before he hurried to catch up with them. With a little luck, the only thing happening today would indeed be standing idly around and becoming incredibly bored.

*14AAA41*

.

They arrived at the palace together with their fellow musketeers, each of the men eyeing the surroundings and watching the preparations. A baldachin was being erected, with a pedestal with chairs on it to protect their majesties from the beaming sun and provide them the possibility to rest. Since the expected arrival of the German duke was not until early afternoon, the king and queen were nowhere in sight. Servants were trailing from the palace toward the baldachin and back, preparing the chairs and everything else for the waiting period. Unfortunately, the exact time of the duke's arrival wasn't known; and because France needed good connections to nearby countries in case of a war with Spain, Louis and Anne would wait outside for the visitor to arrive.

While Treville headed straight into the palace to meet with the king and possibly Rochefort, the four Inseparables gathered themselves near the pedestal. They had been assigned to directly guard the king and queen, whilst the others were ordered to survey the approaching road and the immediate vicinity.

Athos squinted at the cloudless sky, silently cursing the brightness for worsening his headache, before pulling his hat further down to cover his face and concentrating again on his surroundings. Although the sun was shining, the temperature was moderate, rather fitting for their heavy parade uniforms. Nevertheless, it would become challenging to stand hours in the bright sunshine without any shadows, especially for d'Artagnan, who still wasn't wearing a hat. On the other hand, their Gascon was the one of them best prepared for that -because of his growing up under bright skies-, as he had proven often enough.

"Stop worrying, Athos," d'Artagnan addressed his mentor. "I'll be fine."

When the swordsman looked up, the younger studied him a bit more carefully. "You, by the way, don't look too good. Maybe I should start worrying about you?"

Absent-mindedly rubbing his forehead, the former 'comte' took a deep breath and forced a smile on his face. "I'm fine," he stated.

Aramis, who had followed the quiet talk, furrowed his brows, but refrained from commenting. Neither of his two stubborn brothers was really fine, but none of them would ever admit that. He exchanged a glance with Porthos, who had listened as well, and saw the burly musketeer shrug and cock his head. So he simply sighed and swore to himself to keep a close eye on them.

Hours passed, whilst they were waiting and, as usual, they were completely ignored. They were expected to stand still and wait patiently, to watch out and be ready to protect, but not to be heard. Sometimes, it felt like being some sort of decoration, not a living being. No one would come and offer them something to drink or to eat, they had to wait until the visitor had arrived and, after a greeting ceremony, had been guided into the palace, before they could finally leave and get themselves some food and drinks. There was no use in complaining; that was just the way it was. Most times, the king didn't even seem to realize that they had been there, and he would be hard-pressed to remember, which of his musketeers had guarded him.

However, somehow Athos felt a bit uneasy. This was the first time after their ordeal that d'Artagnan was near the king again. They all remembered his majesty's surprising show of empathy very well, and the swordsman was rather sure that all of his three brothers were wondering if the king remembered as well. Or if he had maybe changed his mind and regretted being so open-hearted. Louis was a rather weak person, and so it was even more important to him to seem and look strong. For that reason, he might now be annoyed with them, because he had admitted his fear in their presence. But, if they were lucky, he had simply forgotten about that evening already…

When there was turmoil at the palace door, the musketeers directed their attention towards the Louvre. The sun had passed its highest point, which meant that the estimated time had come for the visitor to arrive. Louis was guiding Anne towards the baldachin, surrounded by some red guards and followed by a dozen servants, carrying fruits and beverages. Rochefort and Treville were accompanying them as well and the Captain shot a quick glance to his four best men, standing around the pedestal. Athos gave him a short nod -all clear- and Treville visibly relaxed. Coming closer, the king flickered a glance towards the familiar blue of his musketeers and then halted in his step with a frown.

 _Damn_ , Athos thought. _He yet remembers_ …

Louis' eyes fell on d'Artagnan and his frown deepened. He seemed ready to say something, but was distracted by the queen's slight tugging at his sleeve. Athos watched her speak to him and saw with relief when his ruler's posture relaxed. Looking quickly over to the boy, the swordsman noticed the tension in his body. The Gascon was standing to attention, his gaze straight ahead, seemingly fixed on a point right behind the royal couple. Obviously, he had noticed the king's reaction at seeing him too and was now expecting some sort of annoyed comment.

When the king continued walking to the pedestal, d'Artagnan's shoulders sagged ever so slightly, but his eyes followed the royal couple until they reached their chairs.

Athos allowed himself a brief sigh of relief before turning his attention back to the vicinity, away from a seemingly relaxed Gascon. Turning his head to make eye contact with his brothers, he suddenly felt light-headed again. Shifting his feet just a little bit and locking his knees prevented him from visibly swaying, but he was forced to briefly close his eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe it had indeed been a bad idea to get up this morning…

Looking up again, he met Aramis' gaze and minutely shook his head. _I'm fine_ … He couldn't suppress the tiny smirk appearing on his face when he saw the medic roll his eyes. Sometimes, Aramis was a real mother-hen…

*14AAA41*

.

D'Artagnan saw Athos paling a little bit and noticed his slight shifting. Stifling a snort, he exhaled slowly. _Asking me if I'm fit for duty, when it's him being off-colour_ … He was thinking about a way to make Athos admit to his illness and return to the garrison, when the king's voice cut into his thoughts.

"D'Artagnan!"

"Your majesty?" he reacted instinctively, straightening once more and flinching when that pulled at his still healing skin.

"Come over here, I have to speak to you," Louis waved him over.

"Of course, your majesty," the Gascon replied, then left his place and walked the few steps over to the baldachin, stopping right in front of the king and queen.

"It's nice to see you on duty again, d'Artagnan," the queen said, a true smile adorning her face. "I've been a little bit worried about you."

"Thanks your majesty, but you needn't worry, I was being very well cared for and now I'm fine again."

"Hm-mh…" Anne made an indefinable noise of disbelief.

"Have you really recovered already?" the king inquired. "I remember your condition rather well, so it's a bit surprising to see you again so soon."

D'Artagnan squirmed a bit under the intense looks of the royal couple. The attention the king was paying him made him feel uneasy, especially since Rochefort glared at him in some sort of anger. And what should he say?

"You may speak freely," the queen said. "And please be honest. After all, you saved the king's life."

Taking a deep breath, the Gascon started to answer the question. "Well, I'm still feeling a bit sore, your majesty, but the wounds are healing well, so there's no need to coddle me. I'm absolutely capable of fulfilling my duty."

"I'd never doubt that," Anne said with a smile.

"About our talk some days ago," the king started rather hesitatingly, "what I spoke of and…"

"It never left the room," d'Artagnan dared interrupt his ruler. "And it never will, just as everything that happened in the forest never will be spoken of again." He put every ounce of sincerity he possessed into those few words of reassurance.

The king tilted his head and his restrained expression gave way for a reluctant smile. He seemed to ponder on d'Artagnan's answer, unsure whether to trust him with his word.

Once more the queen whispered something in his ear and after that Louis' smile broadened.

"The queen reminded me that we wronged you once before and that there's no doubt of your honesty. So this issue is settled. However, I wanted you to know that I'm aware of your loyalty and steadfastness. And I admit I'm rather impressed to see you up and about again after merely a few days. I'm rather proud that I made you one of my musketeers. I'm sure you'll always keep me safe."

"Thank you, your majesty," the Gascon managed to say despite his astonishment.

Apparently Louis was not only remembering everything that had happened between them, but he had also decided to maintain their familiarity, at least for another while. The idea made him feel proud, but it also worried him deeply. No one knew what thoughts could cross his majesty's mind again and it definitely wasn't safe to be too much in his sights. The young musketeer would prefer to be just one of many; instead the king was regarding him with his sometimes ambiguous attention.

He thought about what else to say, when some indistinguishable noise from the end of the road attracted everybody's attention.

"Allow me to take up my station again, your majesty?" d'Artagnan asked carefully.

"Of course, but stay close," Louis said. "I'd appreciate to be guarded by a man who has already proven his loyalty."

The Gascon flinched in the stead of his brothers. The king surely hadn't noticed how offensive his last words had been to any other musketeer. Looking up, he could tell from the blank expressions his brothers were wearing that they had heard the king's last words. Leaving the shadow of the baldachin and returning to his original post, he mouthed "I'm sorry" and smiled, when that earned him three ever so small, but similar smirks from his friends.

Standing to attention again, as his fellows were doing given the approaching carriage, he grimaced a bit when his doublet pushed against his sensible back. When he met Aramis' concerned gaze, he simply shook his head - _I'm fine_ \- and then concentrated on his duty again.

*14AAA41*

.

It was just before dusk when the musketeer's honour guard was finally released. Some of their fellows would stay and make sure that the palace was guarded, but the Inseparables were allowed to return to the garrison after a day of standing guard under a relentless shining sun. D'Artagnan would never admit it, but he was really done. After five days of staying in bed, the last hours had been very strenuous. The constant ache in his healing back had changed into a throbbing pain and every small movement of his shirt against his skin now made him wince.

Looking over to Athos, who was walking right beside him, he could tell from his brother's tense posture and the occasional closing of his eyes, that his headache hadn't made a magical disappearance. He then shot a quick glance over to their medic, who was watching both of them like a hawk, as if he waited for one of them to collapse which, of course, would never happen.

Aramis walking close to Athos' side and Porthos close to him, they finally reached the garrison, gathering themselves at their usual table. The Gascon dropped onto the bench, after quickly shedding his cloak, unable to stifle the relieved moan when he all but slumped over the table.

"You two still fine?" Porthos asked, not even trying to mask the irony in his question, when he glanced from one weary brother to the other.

With a sigh Athos allowed himself to sink down beside d'Artagnan and hid his head in his hands, seemingly attempting to release the ache therein by pressing his palms against his temples.

"Obviously not," Aramis said dryly. "Well then, I propose you two drink and eat and then you'll go straight to get some rest."

Porthos took that as his cue and headed for the kitchen, whilst the medic settled himself onto the opposite bench.

D'Artagnan slowly lifted his head, managing a weak smile. "I don't know if I'm able to eat at all," he admitted freely. "I'm really done…" He straightened a bit more and hissed, when the movement pulled at his back and made his shirt scrub against his tender skin. "Damn," he cursed through his gritted teeth, holding his breath briefly.

"I'll have a look at that," Aramis stated, his voice brooking no argument. "And you'll take some of the laudanum, you need to rest properly if you insist on being fit for duty tomorrow."

Exhaling slowly, d'Artagnan merely nodded his assent. He still felt bound by his promise to Athos and after all that had happened during the last week, he felt rather sure that none of his brothers would think him weak for admitting being in pain.

Athos, who was breathing deliberately slowly in his attempt not to get sick due to the now relentless throbbing in his head, squinted through his fingers over at his little brother. For once deciding to forego his usual stoicism and following the younger man's example, he surprised Aramis when he started to talk.

"Do you think there will possibly be some for me as well?"

"That bad?" the medic asked.

"Mmh…"

"Why didn't you say anything? Treville would have sent you back, surely."

Despite the poor state he was in, Athos managed to give Aramis 'the stare', making the man huff in resigned amusement.

"I take the question back," the medic quickly told his older brother. "Do you think you'll be able to eat?" he asked.

"No, I'm quite sure I won't keep it down," the swordsman said, seeing Porthos return with a tray full of bowls in his hands. Smelling the scent of the stew, his breathing increased and suddenly he started to heave, swallowing convulsively as he fought the urge to vomit.

"Oi!" Porthos exclaimed, noticing at once what was going on. He turned on his heels and, setting the tray aside, he took the water and the cups from it before he approached the table again.

"Well, Porthos, my friend, I think we'll have to delay our dinner," Aramis began, looking from one silent brother to the other. "First, we'll have to make sure that these stubborn two are looked after…"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** _As always, my huge thanks to Debbie and Guest06, whom I can't answer personally. Your reviews are deeply appreciated. And, of course, thanks to those who are following this story or have favorited it._

 _Debbie: If you'd like to follow season 3 on Turkish tv, just pm me. Tomorrow the 3rd episode will be streamed. Let me tell you just one thing... so far I like it!_

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 ***Six***

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Because Athos outright refused to leave the Gascon's side, Aramis decided to take them to the infirmary. At least there, he would have all the supplies he needed, and there were enough beds to ensure that Athos and d'Artagnan could sleep close together, for it seemed that was what Athos needed tonight, as well as some rest. It spoke volumes to the medic that the swordsman didn't protest, but simply allowed himself to be shepherded into the hated room.

Whilst Porthos helped the whelp out of his doublet and coaxed him into taking some laudanum, Aramis took care that Athos was made comfortable. After helping his older brother undress, he poured him some water and added a dose of the pain reliever, which Porthos had passed to him, to it, silently hoping that it wouldn't worsen his nausea, but instead free him from the pain and with it the sickness. The swordsman took the drink without fussing, swallowing it slowly, before he climbed into the bed. The medic watched him fight another wave of queasiness, but Athos managed to keep the fluid down. Watching him intensely, he wasn't surprised when Athos started to speak.

"You think d'Artagnan'll be alright?" Athos' words were already slurred due to the drug, but he was still squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing in obvious pain. Seemingly, the pain reliever was making him feel tired, but lacked in lessening the headache.

"I'll make sure he will be," Aramis answered quietly.

"You should go and look after him," Athos muttered.

"After I'm sure that you're alright," the medic replied. "You're still not looking too good. It's not working, is it?"

"Mmh… at least I no longer feel as if I could vomit every moment…"

"You think you could drink some more water?" Aramis asked, already rising from the bedside and fetching the water skin. "Your body needs fluid."

"I'll try…"

Athos did as he was bidden and, with a little help from his brother, almost managed to empty the water skin, before his head dropped back onto the pillow, his breathing rather heavy. Aramis waited until it evened out, observing the other man intensely, and when he watched him grimacing and heard him moan now and then, he thought of another possibility to help him.

"Why isn't it working?" d'Artagnan's concerned voice from behind made the medic turn.

"Sometimes it takes a bit longer," Aramis told him. "Some people react more to the tiring effect of the drug than to the analgesic. Though it is a bit astonishing that our Athos belongs to that kind."

"Because of my addiction to alcohol?" the former 'comte' asked frankly, still waiting for the pain to diminish.

"You should be used to tiring effects, but you're obviously not," the medic agreed, turning back to him. He carefully pressed his fingers onto his brother's temples, what made Athos flinch. Ignoring that, Aramis started drawing gentle circles.

Peeling his heavy eyelids open again, the swordsman established eye contact. "What…?"

"Hush…" Aramis soothed him. "Close your eyes and keep still, I'm trying to help you."

"Mmh…" Allowing his lids to droop, the former 'comte' tried to relax under his friend's gentle touch.

Scrutinizing his oldest brother once more, the Spaniard suddenly knew where the problem lay. "You know I'll take care of d'Artagnan, don't you?" he whispered.

"Hmm-mh…."

"So why don't you just go to sleep and when you awake tomorrow, all will be well again," he suggested.

"But I'm…"

"No, Athos. Rest. Me and Porthos will take care of everything else…" Aramis almost commanded his brother what to do.

Squinting up at the worried medic, Athos managed an ever so slight quirk of his mouth. "Yes, mother," he murmured, before he gave in to the desire of his body to go to sleep, not even noticing that his head wasn't throbbing as badly as before, the excruciating pain reduced to no more than a noticeable ache.

*14AAA41*

.

"I take it he's finally given in to his exhaustion," Porthos mumbled, when Aramis joined them at the table.

"Yes. He really should have stayed in bed today; it would have spared him some pain. I'm glad that he didn't collapse on duty, there was a moment…" the medic let his voice fade.

"You know how stubborn he is," Porthos said. "If there'd be a competition of mulishness, I don't know who'd be the winner, him or our whelp."

"Hey," d'Artagnan protested, lifting his weary head from his hands and glaring at his brothers. The Gascon was sitting on a chair, his elbows resting on the table, his head only lifted an inch above his palms.

When he saw both of them smirk at him, he just snorted in faked huffiness and let his head drop again. He only wished to be allowed to go to bed; the day had drained him.

He hadn't expected that they would have to stay at the Louvre for so long, nor that it would become that hard for him to stand the ever-present stinging and aching and throbbing of his back. Every time he had moved, his shirt had scrubbed against his healing skin, sending another brief flash of pain through his body, reminding him that he still had a way to go before he had really recovered. Near the end of their guard, he had even felt some dampness and known that at least one of the welts had re-opened.

Now he only wished to get over with undressing and Aramis taking care of him. He was too exhausted to care about the pain the following treatment would cause, or that Aramis would scold him for not telling him that he'd been in pain, but he would tolerate the medic's fussing.

Hearing a sharp inhale, the Gascon knew that Aramis had rounded the table and taken a first look at his back. Readying himself for another ranting attack, d'Artagnan took a deep breath, but the medic surprised him.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," the Spaniard only said, touching the back of his neck gently.

With a sigh, the young man leaned into the touch. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"No, you're not, not really," Porthos stated, while Aramis merely snorted, squeezing the boy's neck.

Smiling into his hands, the Gascon stayed silent, because his brother was right. He wasn't sorry, not at all.

"This will hurt," the medic warned him, tugging carefully at the hem of his shirt.

"Mmh…" Tensing, d'Artagnan waited for the inevitable and managed to just hiss through his gritted teeth, when the linen was peeled from his back.

Exhaling slowly, he obediently allowed his brother to pull the shirt over his head, the blood stained fabric forming a puddle around his arms. Refusing to move, he simply stayed with his head buried in his hands, feeling the muscles of his back twitch of their own accord.

"Seems like you're lucky, it looks like I don't have to redo the stitches," Aramis informed him. "But I'll have to clean your back again."

"Fine…" the young man murmured, sounding tired. He still felt the stinging, but it had lessened distinctly. He also felt the tiring effect of the drug, the world around him becoming hazy. He wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer, but he had to. At least long enough to get himself into bed.

When the medic started to carefully dab at his back, he stiffened and inhaled sharply, holding his breath.

"Sorry," Aramis mumbled, although he didn't stop.

Luckily, the bleeding had already stopped again, leaving a fresh scab on one of the formerly cauterised welts. Discarding the bloodied linen, the medic reached for the tin with the salve, smiling briefly when Porthos put it into his hand. D'Artagnan hissed once more, when Aramis started putting the aromatic salve onto his scars, but that was quickly followed by a relieved sigh. The medic's hands were so very gentle, he couldn't help but relax into his touch. His eyes closed on their own accord and his breathing became deeper. He wasn't able to stifle the sounds of complacency that escaped his mouth.

"Better?"

D'Artagnan could almost hear the broad smile in Aramis' voice, but it didn't bother him. "Much better, thank you," he mumbled sleepily, not wanting to move. Maybe he could sleep right here at the table…

"Come on, up with you then."

Porthos effectively stopped his thoughts by gripping him carefully but determined under his armpits and dragging him up. "Over to the bed, whelp, right at Athos' side. You two need a good night's sleep."

Forcing his heavy eyelids open, the Gascon saw with astonishment that in the meantime Porthos had moved one of the beds, so that it was now put right beside the one Athos lay in. Smiling at him, the young musketeer stumbled over the few inches with his big brother's assistance and dropped onto his stomach, his head turned to face his already sleeping brother.

Whilst Aramis pulled the blanket over him, d'Artagnan reached for Athos' hand and squeezed it. When he heard his oldest brother sigh and breathe deeply, he smiled again and finally allowed sleep to claim him.

*14AAA41*

.

The morning-sun was peeking through the window, its rays aiming directly at the bed the Gascon lay on. Squinting against the brightness, d'Artagnan finally opened his eyes only to see the door close silently. Obviously one of his brothers had just left the infirmary and that had woken him. Wondering if it might have been Athos or one of the others, he pushed himself up carefully, determined to find out where his brothers had gone. He smiled when he found a clean shirt waiting for him, sure that it had been Porthos' doing. The big man was always anticipatory when one of them was injured.

Pulling it over his head, he grimaced when the linen rubbed against his sore backside. Maybe it would be a good idea to wait just a bit longer before he put on his uniform again. Yesterday had been really hard… Straightening to full height, he flinched again, feeling the pull of the scars. Yes, it would definitely be wise to wait a day longer. Or maybe two…

He made his way out of the infirmary, stopping just behind the threshold and searching the garrison yard for his friends. A quick look around showed him Porthos and Aramis seated at their usual table, and Athos just joining them.

"Hey sleepy head, finally awake?" Porthos called upon him. "Come on then, breakfast is ready."

Walking over to his brothers, d'Artagnan looked around to find the garrison already busy. Obviously, he and Athos had overslept…

Aramis must have read his thoughts, for when he sat down right next to a still rather quiet Athos, the medic smiled at him.

"Don't worry, I excused both of you this morning. I recommended that Treville put you and Athos on light duty."

"I'm fine," Athos protested immediately, although he still was squinting against the light.

"Yeah, of course you are," Porthos said. "That's why you're staring at your breakfast instead of eating it."

Athos only lifted his head, frowning. Seeing Porthos' knowing grin, he grudgingly took a piece of bread and started munching on it.

"Luckily, the king and his visitor are staying at the Louvre today, so there's no need for the whole regiment to guard them. That's why Treville decided to leave us behind, guarding the garrison," Aramis told them, drawing quotation marks in the air with the last three words. "He suggested we might use the time to refine the whelp's shooting skills…" Noticing the Gascon's frown, he grinned. "Porthos told us you're still a bit slow with reloading your pistol."

Ready to protest, d'Artagnan opened his mouth only to close it without a sound when he caught Aramis' look. A quiet day at the garrison would do him and Athos a world of good, especially since he had already admitted to himself that he should take things a bit more easily.

"Fine," Athos grumbled, fully aware what Aramis was doing and, although he'd never admit it, grateful for it. His head still was aching; he must have hit it harder than he first thought. And the boy would definitely benefit from it, given the stiff, careful way he still moved.

"That's settled then," Aramis stated. "So I suggest we enjoy breakfast first, before starting with the training."

*14AAA41*

.

Afternoon found the four most troublesome musketeers seated quietly at their usual table, sharing a bottle of wine.

After some hours of shooting and reloading, Athos had invited d'Artagnan to some sort of sparring, which had turned out to be another teaching lesson. The swordsman's head had finally quit aching and so he had carefully tested his protégé's ability to wield his sword. If the Gascon was claiming to be fit for duty, then he had better be fit to fight as well. And d'Artagnan had proven his claim, his movements only a little bit slower and less graceful than usual. The look of relief on Aramis' face, who had been watching the two of them intensely, had caused Athos to close his eyes briefly and take a deep breath. At least there wouldn't be any lasting damage from the whipping, which had been more than possible, given the deep cuts across the lad's shoulder-blades.

"I wonder what it was about yesterday," Athos started to speak after a while. "When his majesty called you…" Although he didn't voice it, the concern in his voice was clear. Neither he nor the others had overheard the first part of the talk between Louis and d'Artagnan, only the last sentence had been said loud enough for all of them to hear.

"The king only wanted to make sure that the talk we had remained private," d'Artagnan answered after emptying his cup and taking a deep breath. "But you're right, it makes me just a bit nervous as well."

"I never said that…" the former 'comte' began, only to be interrupted by Porthos.

"Right you are, his majesty's sudden familiarity has me on edge as well," the burly musketeer said. "People have died for far lesser reasons…"

"I pray that it won't last much longer," Aramis added. "Rochefort didn't look too pleased, and since he seems to take every opportunity bidden to belittle the musketeer regiment, it's just a matter of time before he tries to use this to his advantage. Making the king believe again that it was our fault that he was taken… Or worse…"

"It's easy to destroy a man's reputation," Athos commented out of the blue. "One only needs some accusations and a few so-called witnesses…" He fell still after that, but he needn't say more. Each man at the table knew at once what he was referring to.

"So I'd better stay out of his majesty's sight for a while, wouldn't I?" d'Artagnan concluded. "Just to make sure he finally forgets about his strange liking for me. I'm just one of his musketeers, an ordinary soldier, nothing more."

"You're the youngest musketeer ever getting commissioned," Athos stated matter-of-factly. "You're much closer to him in age than any of us. And no matter if you want it or not, d'Artagnan, you're anything but ordinary."

The Gascon's mouth fell open at Athos' unexpected praise. Exchanging looks with Aramis and Porthos, he saw them equally surprised by their leader's open words, but also smiling and nodding their approval. When none of them protested or started to tease him, he resigned to stare at his older brothers in disbelief.

"You really think that? All of you?" he asked.

Earning himself nothing more than shrugs, he shook his head. "Wow…"

.

"Maybe we should simply hope that the king takes to blaming us again for whatever he likes," Porthos said after some minutes of silence.

"It's strange that his majesty seems to still be interested in your well-being, and even convinced of your loyalty after you rejected his order," Athos began.

"Perhaps because there's someone else, who reminds him of his musketeer's suffering, while making sure he'll stay unhurt," a female voice fell in.

"Constance…" D'Artagnan had recognized her voice at once, rising and walking the few steps over to her. He stopped right in front of her, taking in her frame and the worried expression she was wearing. When she saw him approach, her face brightened, but she kept him at arm's length. So he simply took her hand and placed a kiss in its palm. "It's nice to see you," he murmured, unable to completely hide his still existent emotions for her.

"I saw you yesterday, at the Louvre. I was surprised to see you back on duty that quickly, since you had barely left your sickbed a day ago. And I had to convince myself that you're fine, so I took leave, supposedly to visit my husband," she whispered.

"What do you mean, 'someone else'?" Athos had risen as well and joined them. "It's not you, is it?" His voice was thick with concern.

"No, heaven forbid, not me. But the queen still feels a bit guilty for blaming you three for the king's abduction, so she makes sure that he doesn't forget."

"I wish she…" Aramis began, only to shut his mouth abruptly when Athos glared at him.

Constance frowned, ready to ask, but d'Artagnan distracted her.

"She should quit reminding him," he said. "It might make him angry one day, and I don't want the king to be angry with his queen. Not for my sake…"

"It would also be better for your safety, if his majesty simply forgot about those dashed events," Athos fell in. "I don't like the focus you're momentarily in. It's dangerous."

"Maybe you could tell her majesty that d'Artagnan doesn't want the attention?" Porthos suggested. "That he's content to be his majesty's humble servant?"

"That would put him out of Rochefort's focus as well," Athos agreed without voicing it. "Given the look he wore when d'Artagnan was once more summoned by the king in public, it would seem that he is almost jealous. And we all know how little he likes the musketeers, and us in particular."

"If that's what you want?" Constance asked d'Artagnan. When he nodded, she continued. "Well then, I'll speak to her majesty."

"But be careful," the Gascon said, squeezing her hand. "I don't want you to endanger yourself."

"Tell me," she changed topic. "How are you? Honestly?"

Smiling at her concern for his well-being, d'Artagnan answered. "I'm fine." Hearing Aramis harrumphing, he grinned and corrected his statement. "Well, almost at least. I'm still sore and I don't dare wearing my leathers right now, and maybe not even tomorrow, but it's healing, Constance."

"We'll make sure he's patient and careful," Aramis added, with a mischievous grin. "Just as we did today…"

The queen's confidante merely snorted, knowing the four men better than she sometimes liked to. "I have to go now," she said, relinquishing a fitting reply. "To not come out a liar, I have to at least visit my husband briefly before I return to the palace. Although I'm rather sure the queen knows very well why I left…" she ended, murmuring more to herself.

Exchanging one last look with d'Artagnan, she pulled her hand out of his and straightened. "Take care of him," she addressed the three older musketeers, surrounding her and the Gascon. Receiving a short nods, she smiled, then turned and quickly left the garrison.

"Hmm… who said that he was just friends with Mme. Bonacieux?" Aramis asked, although it was more of a rhetorical question. " **That** definitely didn't look like 'just friends'."

"Whatever it looked like," d'Artagnan retorted heatedly, "she chose to stay with her husband. So yes, we're friends, nothing else."

"If it makes it easier for you to believe that…"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** _So... I'm almost sad, that this is the final chap to this little story. Your support was really heart-warming, thanks for that._

 _As always, thanks to Debbie and Guest06 for leaving reviews. I enjoyed them!_

 _And a last special thanks to my beta 'Linguam' for her efforts to make this readable. THANK YOU!_

 _THANK YOU VERY MUCH to everyone who followed, favorited or read this story. I'll be back soon -hopefully- with the sequel to 'More than Battered'. (If I can stop watching season 3... *g*)_

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

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.

 ***Epilogue***

 **.**

 _Several days later…._

Porthos and Aramis had been ordered to guard duty at the palace for two nights straight, for causing another brawl with the Red Guards. That left Athos and d'Artagnan alone in their favourite tavern, sharing a meal and some bottles of wine and mostly sitting silently side by side, content with each other's company.

D'Artagnan's wounds were healed at last, only a few scars remaining, and he had reassumed his duty just a few days after Constance's visit at the garrison. Treville, sharing the concern of his trusted quartet regarding their youngest, had not yet assigned them to palace duty again, to make sure the king finally forgot about his liking for the Gascon. Luckily, the negotiations with the German duke had distracted the monarch enough not to enquire the whereabouts of his favourite musketeer. And Constance had let them know that she had spoken with the queen and that, after her first astonishment, her majesty had finally understood what she'd been doing. So, if the quartet was to return back to the palace, it would most likely be as it had always been before.

Whether their plans had worked out, however, was still to be proven.

Now, after finishing the meal, the Gascon was watching Athos from the corner of his eye, easily recognizing the heavy silence that surrounded the man. Although the swordsman hadn't said a word after their encounter in the forest, d'Artagnan guessed that the return of his wife was troubling him deeply. After all, Athos had sworn to kill her should she ever show her face in Paris again. But now the king had granted her clemency for her crimes, so his hands were bound.

 _Who knows_ , the younger silently wondered, _maybe he's secretly relieved… I'm rather sure he still loves her, somehow_ …

He really wished for his brother to speak to him, to share his burden, but Athos most likely never would. So he would simply stay at his side and provide silent, unobtrusive support. And make sure that Athos got home safe after drowning his sorrows.

*14AAA41*

.

Having prepared himself for a rather long night, d'Artagnan noticed with obvious surprise when the former 'comte' rose just after having finished the second bottle.

"What?" Athos asked, standing and waiting, and founding himself eyed critically by his young friend.

"Nothing," d'Artagnan hurried to say, rising as well.

Athos tilted his head, an ironic smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Thanks to your company, I do not feel the need to drink tonight. That is what you're wondering about, isn't it, d'Artagnan?"

"Uuh…" the younger made an unintelligible noise, before a broad smile enlightened his face.

Athos' smirk morphed into a more natural smile, his heart warmed by the simple acceptance he got from his youngest brother. He would never say it aloud, but the boy's presence was really good for him, although the pup was sometimes driving him mad with his recklessness. The Gascon's loyalty and steadfastness and the fact that he had never judged him, not after he had blurted out his darkest secret in his presence, and not even after he'd shot him, were still almost unbelievable from his point of view and yet… It was comforting and relieving, and making him feel better, worthier. He was grateful for it. But that he never would tell anyone.

"Well then, back to the garrison, I guess?" d'Artagnan said, jolting Athos out of his thoughts.

"Yes. But maybe not straightaway, I'd like to take a walk through the night, if you don't mind." The former 'comte' knew he needn't explain himself, for he was sure that d'Artagnan sensed what was bothering him.

And the Gascon didn't disappoint him. "As you wish…"

*14AAA41*

.

Walking the silent, Parisian streets, d'Artagnan took the opportunity to ask about the one, simple statement Athos had made that afternoon when they all had sat at their table. _'You're anything but ordinary.'_ The words were still echoing in his mind and after his first joy about them, the last days he had started to think about what his mentor could have meant.

"Athos…" he hesitated, pondering how to continue.

With a sigh, the addressed stopped and turned to look at him.

Seeing the older man's guarded expression, d'Artagnan immediately knew that his mentor was expecting to be questioned about his wife. Deciding to cut it short, the young musketeer simply said what was on his mind.

"Do you really deem me extraordinary?"

His insecurity and the disbelief must have been audible, for his mentor just huffed and shook his head somewhat exasperatedly.

"Do I indeed have to repeat myself?" the swordsman asked rhetorically, sighing once more when his young friend only looked at him.

"You are brave, d'Artagnan, and steadfast. Loyal to your king and even more to us, your brothers. Honourable, kind and big-hearted and intelligent. You defy injustice and unfairness. You stormed into our lives like a whirlwind and found your place in our midst, in our hearts, as if you'd been the missing piece we never missed. Not before we met you. Never before has a man, as young as you, made it into the musketeers, with no experience in battle or soldiering at least. And although your recklessness, your stubbornness and your temper sometimes – no," he corrected himself with a smirk, "...most times drive me mad, yes… You **are** extraordinary. And you will make a great musketeer one day."

Athos looked at his little brother, who at this moment seemed once more incredibly young in his baffled astonishment, and smiled more openly than ever. When d'Artagnan didn't say anything but continued staring at him, seemingly trying to grasp the meaning of his words, he gripped the younger man's shoulder and squeezed it.

That brought the boy back to himself and his stunned expression morphed into one of pure delight and pride.

"Don't make me regret telling you that," the swordsman spoke drily, but still with a small grin adorning his face.

The Gascon shook his head, unable to wipe the proud grin completely from his face and still speechless.

"Well then, I guess we better keep going. In case you didn't notice, d'Artagnan, it's raining. And as much as I like the solitude the rain provides, I would prefer not to get soaked to the skin."

*14AAA41*

.

Despite Athos' complaining, they had walked in a rather slow pace towards the garrison, each man in his own thoughts. Though d'Artagnan was still stunned, he had stayed silent and allowed Athos to let his mind wander. He knew his older brother had opted for the longer way home because he needed some time to think, but didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. Most likely the older was rattled by the turn of events, his over-protectiveness as clear an indication as his taciturnity, but the swordsman would deal with it the way he always did… silent and to himself.

When they finally reached the garrison, they were both almost soaked through. Their coats were heavy with rain, their leathers jarring from humidity and d'Artagnan's hair dripping wet, as was Athos' hat. So they headed straight for the kitchen, where a fire was always kept burning, just in case it suddenly might be needed. After doffing their coats and placing them over some chairs, the Gascon stoked the fire until it was burning brightly again. Meanwhile, Athos had gone through Serge's stock and found a small rest of spiced wine, which he placed near the fire to heat up.

D'Artagnan pushed a bench as close to the fire as possible and seated himself on it, stretching his legs and arms towards the pleasant warmth. Now that he was out of the wet and cold he felt the chill spreading through his bones. Unable to suppress a shiver, he smiled nevertheless, remembering Athos' honest answer to his question. Those few words, he would never forget, and he would do everything in his might to never make Athos regret saying them. He would make him proud.

"Drink this," Athos' voice demanded, while he pushed a mug with steaming wine into his hands.

Then the older took his place right beside him, so close that their thighs and shoulders were pressed together, and grabbed his own mug to warm his hands. For a while, they simply sat there, staring into the flames and again each in his own thoughts, neither of them caring about the silence between them, which was only interrupted by the sizzling and crackling of the burning wood.

"You need a hat," the swordsman stated a bit later, taking in d'Artagnan's still dripping hair.

The youth looked up, saw his brother's smirk and simply shook his head like a wet dog, sending water drops flying through the room.

"Hey," Athos protested, quickly shuffling away from the younger man, but barely suppressing a laugh.

Rising, he went back to Serge's stock and, after a brief search through the cupboards, he found what he'd been looking for. Returning to the fireplace, he tossed a towel over to his brother, before refilling both their mugs with the rest of the wine.

"Thanks." The Gascon's voice was muffled under the linen that he was rubbing his hair dry with.

As soon as d'Artagnan was done, the former 'comte' handed him his mug again.

"Well," Athos began after another silent round of sipping spiced wine and staring into the fire, "it can't be long till we're back on palace duty."

"Mmh… Then we'll see if my absence has done the trick," the younger said.

"You know what he's like," Athos continued, deliberately not using a name or title. "Skittish and giddy, with the attention span of a child. He has surely forgotten what's happened already."

D'Artagnan looked at him, somewhat shocked about the way the older man was speaking of their ruler. If someone else would overhear talk like this, the swordsman would be arrested for treason. No matter that most people at court were thinking the same or that every word was true.

"You're particularly blunt tonight," the Gascon stated. "Where does it come from?"

His older brother merely shrugged, but didn't answer. Instead he emptied the rest of his wine in one gulp and resumed staring into the flames.

Knowing that he wouldn't get an answer, d'Artagnan emptied his mug as well and sat silently at his oldest brother's side. It would last a bit longer till their leathers were halfway dry, so that they could undress more easily before climbing into their beds. If Athos wasn't up to talking any more, he would be content with sitting here, bearing him company and get warm again.

*14AAA41*

.

They had just departed for the night, the Gascon already heading for his room, when there was a strangled noise at the gates, a muffled thud of a body collapsing to the ground. Immediately alert, Athos turned on his heels and caught a glimpse of a big, hooded figure, quickly crossing the yard and hurrying up to Treville's office.

Following the intruder, he was joined by d'Artagnan, who of course had also noticed that something was amiss. The two musketeers silently took the stairs and saw the man entering their Captain's room. After sharing a quick look, both nodded simultaneously and then d'Artagnan went right to enter the office through one of the windows, whilst Athos took the second, secret door, leading directly into Treville's sleeping quarters.

The room was dimly lit and for merely a second the swordsman froze when he saw the man holding his Captain hostage, a blade pressed against his throat.

"I … warn you, I'm a desperate man. If you resist, I will kill you… I want an audience with your king. And I have no time to waste," he heard the dark-skinned man say.

Crossing the room in absolute silence, he noticed d'Artagnan joining him from the other side. Aiming at the intruder, Athos cocked his gun. "Drop it!"

The man froze and then there was the sound of d'Artagnan cocking his pistol as well.

"Do as he says… or we will kill **you** , where you stand!" The Gascon's voice was low and threatening and finally the assailant released the Captain and moved back.

Treville rose from his chair and quickly brought a safe distance between him and his uninvited guest. "I know you," he said, taking a closer look at the big, dark skinned man, guarded closely by his musketeers, "…you're in the Spanish army."

Turning, he nodded to Athos and d'Artagnan, in some sort of introduction. "This is General Tarík Al Aman…"

*14AAA41*

.

.

 _Well, and the following you all know, don't you? So this is…_

 **The End**


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